


Bound

by NRGburst



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Swap, Crossover- Kimi no Na wa | Your Name, Epistolary, F/M, Mutual Pining, Prophecy, Red String of Fate, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 12:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20425886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NRGburst/pseuds/NRGburst
Summary: Because she's never been good at letting go/he's always been a stubborn bull.The War for the Dawn looms, and the Red Comet approaches. So why is Arya suddenly swapping bodies in her dreams with some smith's apprentice in King's Landing?(Body swap shenanigans with a KNNW twist.)





	1. Threads

**Author's Note:**

> Taking massive liberties with the timeline and worldbuilding for this canon AU crossover, though I've tried to stay true to character dynamics etc. The main difference is that Robert made Stannis his hand right off the bat and not Jon Arryn, so the Starks have stayed safely north and dangerous secrets have remained secret. Chronologically, most of them are the same age they are in S7/8 (and those who were supposed to die are therefore older than they were)- if you've watched KNNW you'll be aware of the time twist but you definitely don’t need to have watched the movie- just crossing over the basic plot.  
Leaning more towards the show than the books for existing side characters and events, but I'll draw from both.

_(“Arya? Arya? You- you don't know me at all, do you?”)_

* * *

“Arya!”

She sits up abruptly in bed at the sound of the door slamming into the wall, dagger in hand and eyes wide. Rickon gives an annoyed huff from the doorway, sneering.

“Come _on!_ Breakfast already!”

He leaves the door open when he stalks back downstairs, and Arya scowls and reaches under her pillow for the sheath as her heart continues to gallop in her chest.

Stupid little brother.

But from the way sunlight is streaming through the gaps in the shutters, she really has slept late.

It's not like her- she's a sword, with a disciplined, keen edge. And she rolls out of bed in one smooth motion so she can kick the door shut again for the privacy to get dressed.

The dream she'd been having must have caught and held her under. It was strange: like a wolf dream, as if she were running around in somebody else's skin.

But it wasn't Nymeria. And even now she can feel the details of it slipping away, although she remembers heat and strength and the smell of iron and sewage...

She frowns when she goes to do her toilet. Her smallclothes are tied on wrong. As if she had done up the ties backward, so she can't just pull them open one-handed as usual.

But she chalks it up to the odd start to the day, quickly relieves herself and then changes into her tunic and trousers before heading downstairs for breakfast.

She _is _late- the men have already left the table- doubtless they're already out in the yard training or with Father and the other lords they're currently hosting. Mother sends her a frown from where she's speaking to Maester Luwin and jerks her head towards the table, and Arya ducks her head in apology and walks a little faster. She really wishes she hadn't slept late- she prefers eating in relative peace with the men and getting first crack at the hot food and freshly baked bread. Makes her feel less a stranger because that, at least, hasn't changed in the time she's been gone.

The ladies always take second shift at the dining tables with the children because they take more time to get dressed, fix their hair and then socialize endlessly over the meal. Sansa's upcoming wedding to Lord Steffron Frey's son and heir is the usual focus of conversation now and Arya would really prefer not to be dragged into arguments over what she should wear or how her manners have suffered.

Case in point: Sansa greets her with an outraged glare and sniff. “Well, thank heavens you've remembered how to use a fork today! I expect you to work hard to re-learn the dance: the ceremony is at twilight. This will be my last one, so I need you to do a decent job even if Braavos seems to have scraped it from your head somehow. I'll practice with you once I finish mending the robe, but you need to get it right. ”

Arya gives Sansa a look of disbelief as she stabs cold bacon, sausages, and bread for her plate. “What are you on about? Might not be good at any lady-like pastimes, but I've always been better at the dance than you.”

Sansa's blue eyes blaze with recrimination. “You don't remember what _an absolute disaster _you were yesterday? Couldn't even remember how to get to the Godswood and you just turned around and kept apologizing _like an idiot._ I had to spend all afternoon mending what you ripped! I'm glad you had to practice all evening too, though I feel sorry for the Reeds. And you, Bran.”

“_What?!”_

“Arya! You're back.” Bran smiles at their older sister while Jojen gives Arya a bracing smile from beside him and gives his head a slight but urgent shake: _stop protesting._ “Thank you for mending the robe, Sansa--” Bran continues, “your stitching is so beautiful that I know it'll be good as new.”

Sansa sighs and rolls her eyes, but the flattery obviously mollifies her. “...I'll do my best, of course. And she's been back for a month, so stop giving her special treatment! You could at least be grateful, Arya! If it was left to _you,_ the whole thing would still be a wreck.”

Jojen gives Arya a prodding look and Arya, baffled, complies. “I am? Grateful, I mean-- I'm glad you're sewing it for me. I'll practice the dance, I promise. Really don't know how I forgot it- we've been doing it since we were girls.”

She can think of the steps in her head even now, dagger in right hand, bundles of newly harvested barley, wheat and oats in the other, grey wool robes embroidered with weirwood leaves swirling around their bodies as they turn, turn, turn, stepping carefully in pattern. Arms up, swishing the grain in every direction, round and round the godswood, before using their daggers to offer blood to the gaping mouth of the heart tree. Stark maidens have performed the ceremony (and Reeds have provided both instruments and music) to renew the bond with the old gods for thousands of years, as her father had reminded her once, when she was ten.

“_It's not fair that I can't use my hand properly after! Can't Jeyne Poole or Beth Cassel do it if Bran can play the pipes too? I think Sansa would like to dance with them better anyway.”_

_Father had looked bleak. He'd smoothed her hair back, eyes solemn. “I know it seems barbaric and unfair, these old traditions, and I'm doubly sorry that you favor your left hand. But when we break the bond, our land and people bleed instead. The last time that happened, we had years of war, not just here, but all over Westeros. I need you to understand how important this ceremony is. We're Starks: wardens of the North. Bran cannot fight wildlings with his damaged knee; but he can play. You must do your part too, and neither Jeyne nor Beth have been marked for this as you and Sansa have.”_

“_I'd rather fight than just dance with a dagger.”_

Father had smiled grimly then, much like the smile Meera gives her from across the table. “Well, you must feel better after a good sleep,” she says pointedly, and then gives Jojen a questioning look after cocking her head at Arya. Jojen nods and Meera relaxes, obviously relieved.

Arya looks between them, bewildered.

_What in Seven Hells did she miss while she was sleeping?_

* * *

Bran pulls her aside after breakfast and explains as best he can.

“I think you were warged ...in a fashion. It seemed like your soul _changed places _with another, actually. Jojen and Meera and I helped him where we could, but we couldn't exactly tell him how to dance properly and Sansa was frantic when you --he-- tripped and ripped a big hole in your robe.”

“There was _a boy_ using my body?”

“He didn't do it on purpose- he thought this was all a dream, but he couldn't wake from it like a proper warg could. Sounded like he was lowborn, the way he talked. Said he was from King's Landing, and I believe it- acted like he'd never even seen a _field_ before,” Meera adds.

“I thought skinchangers couldn't take control of thinking beings easily. Why didn't I fight him off? And how could he warg me from so far away?”

Bran frowns. “I don't know. It was like you were _gone,_ not like you were trapped in there with him. Jojen, Meera, what do you think?”

They both shake their heads and shrug, and Jojen tilts his head. “Bran's the strongest warg we know, and warging _a person_ isn't supposed to be possible.”

Bran nods thoughtfully. “Even with the wolves, Summer is easiest because we're bonded. And you obviously don't even know this Gendry-”

“Gendry? That's his name?”

“He quite liked being you. Said he'd never eaten so well in his life, and he walked around the castle and through the fields like this was a wonderful dream, feeding the horses and handling your weapons. You –he-- was quite excited when he realized you had a Valyrian steel dagger. But he was surprised when he woke up here as you yesterday. We figured out quickly that something was awry from the way you wandered down gawping at everything and kept quiet and didn't help yourself to food. Might have managed to keep out of trouble if Sansa hadn't insisted on practicing, but we got him to talk once she left with your robe.”

Arya hesitates, considering. “This morning, it did feel like I'd warged in my dreams. And it was strange because it wasn't a wolf dream, although I guess I remembered that it stank like King's Landing and I felt... tall and strong.” She makes a face. “You'd think I'd remember warging all the way there...?”

“You've warged Nymeria from Braavos,” Bran reminds her.

“But _she's my direwolf, _and it's always just in dreams- I'm still _me_ in the morning. How could this Gendry boy and I warg each other for a whole day?”

Bran shrugs. “Honestly, I don't know. Not supposed to warg that long, or you can lose yourself in the other. Maybe once I find the-” he breaks off and gives Jojen a look and then shakes his head. “Anyway, if it happens again, perhaps you can find out? No lasting harm seems to have come from it, at any rate.”

Arya has to agree- what else is there to be done? The Red Witch might have been able do some spell to prevent it in future, but she'd left while Arya was in Braavos, confused and conflicted by visions of a figure emerging from flames unburnt. She'd taken Jon with her too, which Arya wishes hadn't happened, though she can guess that must have made Mother happy.

Still, Bran and Jojen are greenseers- if they say this Gendry was in her by accident and neither seems particularly worried, then she shouldn't be either. Maybe it's just one of those peculiar things that happens, like how Billy had hiccups for three whole days once, even while he was sleeping, and they stopped as mysteriously as they had started.

So she goes through her usual drills with bow and staff before heading out to the Godswood with Bran and the Reeds to practice. Sansa brings her mended robe out in the afternoon, but she refuses to let Arya wear it until they practice one last time.

There's no mistaking the relief on Sansa's face when they dance in circular unison as they've done for years, and Arya moves with sure-footed precision.

“Well thank goodness! It was like you were a whole different person yesterday!” Sansa exclaims, and she gives her a genuine smile. “You've always been so good at the physical things; I couldn't understand how you could forget it so completely. But I'm glad. You'll be doing this alone until Roslin has a girl, and that girl turns eight.”

Arya shrugs. “I could end up like the Blackfish: a warrior who never married. Which means I might be doing this until I'm old and gray like Berena Stark.”

Sansa gives her a look that's a bit like pity. “Well, I'm looking forward to never having to cut my hand again, anyway. Father made me wait until you were back to betroth me, and I've been a woman grown for years.”

That makes Arya feel sorry, but only a little. “A clean cut hurts less than pushing out a baby, I'm sure. ...You really want to marry that Frey? He's so much older. And you've never even met him.”

Sansa lifts an elegant shoulder, matter-of-fact. “I've always wanted to move south, where the climate's milder and there's more of _everything- _you know that. Roslin says he's a good man- handsome, too. He's kind enough in his letters. And he'll be heir to the castle and lordship, in time. Lord Steffon is so _old _that it's probably going to be sooner than later.” Her face softens. “Besides, babies are sweet. You haven't been around to help with Robb and Roslin's babe much, but you have to admit he's adorable.”

Arya smiles warmly at the thought of little Ben before she hesitates. “I'm never going to be a lady like you and mother. How many ladies do you know who've been wards of the First Sword of Braavos? Who have prophecies hanging over their heads?”

Sansa gives her a pensive look. “Maybe it won't come true.”

Arya flips her dagger into her hand. A priceless relic from lost Valyria, presented to her on her thirteenth nameday, when everything had changed.

“Maybe.”

* * *

The ceremony goes smoothly at twilight, the eerie tune from the pipes spanning the time between day and night exactly, and Arya doesn't hesitate when she cuts her palm neatly at the end, dribbling the blood into the carved weirwood bowl set before the heart tree. As she tips her blood into its carved mouth after Sansa, she strives to ignore the pain, but she can't help but wonder what life as this Gendry would be like, without any of what's expected from Arya Stark of Winterfell.

House Stark's bannermen are all gathered in the growing gloom to witness. They've been arriving for about a week- some have to ride far to get to Winterfell, and many have come with wagonloads of their taxes and their families. This winter is supposed to be cold and hard after such a long summer and they need to discuss preparations with Father and Robb. Arya has noticed that both Mormont ladies and Alys Karstark carry swords, and Meera Reed wields both spear and bow and carries a hunting dirk. It seems more things have changed for girls than she had thought, and she plans to find out what she can at the feast. It fills her with pride though, to hear them all reaffirming their fealty to House Stark and smell all the good Westerosi food cooking. She loved Braavosi seafood, truly, but she's been looking forward to having Old Nan's kidney pies and roast goose and venison all day.

* * *

She's made friends with both Lyanna Mormont and Alys Karstark before she finally heads up to her room, slightly tipsy from ale that she's finally old enough to drink. It's the most fun she's had at a feast in her memory- the ale sure helps to make things feel friendly and relaxed. Maybe it's also easier without having to worry about Jon hunched brooding and alone at the servant's table, though she feels guilty for even thinking it.

As she's getting undressed for bed, she notices that her travel journal has been left open on the desk instead of being neatly bound and tucked in the drawer. On the open page is writing that isn't hers with carefully printed words:

_Bran and Jojen and Mira are nice. _

_Your sister thinks I'm crazy. Maybe I am? This is the realest dream I ever had._

_You have a nice life, Arya._

_ Gendry _

It's funny, the pang that goes through her when she reads it. She'd completely forgotten about the odd warging-switch during the feast. The note feels almost like a goodbye.

Strange to think they've never actually met.

* * *

It's especially ironic when she wakes the next morning. Her eyes snap open when she hears the bustle of a city stirring outside. Realizes how hard the bed is; that she's in a windowless room.

_No, it can't be..._

She looks around warily-- it's not Braavosi style stone or any room in Winterfell, although the cramped, dark space doesn't tell her much else. She's on a pallet too small for her body.

Her big, masculine body that is _naked _under the thin, holey blanket. She lifts up the blanket experimentally and--

Well, Bran was right and Gendry is definitely a boy. Why in hells is he hard like that for no reason? Still, she can't help but admire the shape of him as she runs a tentative hand over his –her?-- defined pectoral muscles before she lifts his arm and flexes. He seems strong, probably works some kind of laboring job. Belatedly, she wishes she had found out more about him but she's more conscious of the gnawing emptiness in his belly- he must have gone to bed hungry.

She turns over his hands. To her surprise, there's a smooth, circular scar on the palm of his right hand- looks like an old burn. Funny to look down and see an unblemished left palm- she's had the ritual scars on her palm as long as she can remember and she went to bed with the fresh cut aching, despite the ale, her mother's careful stitches and Maester Luwin's good numbing balm. His hands are big and callused from work, with black ingrained around the nails and into the skin. She inspects more closely and decides it's not just dirt- it's more like coal dust or soot.

Maybe Gendry sells coal? He's not built like a chimney sweep.

She pulls on his leather tunic, tucking his stupid boy parts into his pants before searching fruitlessly for socks and reluctantly shoving his bare feet into his boots. She feels so awkward, like she's a little girl dressing in her brother's clothes for play but the clothes actually fit, and she has to laugh at herself a little. This is no wolf dream: she's in full control and everything feels completely real, even the way she fumbles the bootlaces with his bigger fingers and the growl of his empty stomach.

She's not used to standing so tall and being able to bare her chest and arms like this. Meera said he was from King's Landing, which has always been warmer than Winterfell- it practically feels like midsummer. Plus his hair doesn't require tying up although it feels thick and dirty and –she pulls out a strand-- black.

She pulls aside the curtain hanging over the doorway cautiously and spies weapons and armor hanging on the walls, an anvil and a big forge, coals still glowing.

So he's a smith. An apprentice, probably, as it seems they're of an age.

Mikken's apprentices eat at his table in the dining hall in Winterfell, but she's sure it can't be the same here for Gendry. This looks like a shop, so there's no lord providing food for those who work at his castle. She turns back and rummages under his sleeping pallet, smiling when she finds a little leather bag of coins tucked against the frame.

Her eyes widen when she cracks open one of the shop's big double doors and realizes that she's in the shop at the top of the Street of Steel, right next to the Sept of Baelor. When she'd come to King's Landing with Father years ago, he'd said it was much more dangerous in the capital than Wintertown or White Harbour, so they'd always been surrounded by his men whenever they'd had to traverse the streets. They'd hardly gone anywhere interesting, coming up to see the wares on this famous street just the once, and Arya had spent most of the trip only able to look down at the city, safely protected in the Red Keep while Father had conducted business for Winterfell. She'd only protested occasionally: she'd filled her time finding secret passages and better, exploring the big dragon skulls in the dungeons with Princess Shireen before Father had hired Syrio Forel as her instructor.

Since then, her life has followed one unswerving path. She's trained and ready. And winter is almost here.

So it's a truly unexpected windfall, this chance to explore King's Landing hidden in the body of a tall, strong boy who can wander the streets without restrictions.

She grins as she opens the door wide and strides out confidently.

_Well, Gendry. Let's get some breakfast, then._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Japanese Shintoism is actually a lot like the animistic worship of the old gods, so the ceremony I described is a mix of the two. My first crossover ever, so if I'm doing it all wrong etc. do let me know.
> 
> I've got about a third of this fic written, and the rest outlined, so I'm hoping to stick to weekly updates! I'm [nrgburst](https://nrgburst.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you ever want to send an ask or see WIP snippets. :D


	2. Ply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Invisible threads are the strongest ties. (F. Nietzsche)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder to mind the rating! They are horny teenagers so normal horny teenager things are going to happen in this chapter. It's a running gag in KNNW too, but if that isn't your cup of tea, drop me a line and I can post an edited version. Not sure if I should tag this as dub-con too? 
> 
> There are going to be a couple implied minor/background ships in this- I'll tag as they are added!

_(“Did you really make that?”_

“_...Yes. I made it for... your brother, I think.”_

“_For my brother? Truly?”)_

* * *

Gendry wakes with tears in his eyes and the inside of his nose burning, not sure why a dream of big grey eyes and a beaming smile makes his heart ache so painfully. There were other parts to the dream too: constant pain in his left hand; how it felt to bite into roast goose: tender, juicy, flavorful meat under crispy skin. The easy smiles of friends and family, the smell of medicinal balm and books and the soft furs on her bed. The Septa had ordered him to take a bath before bed and so he'd had a good look at her naked body, washed her carefully...

He quite likes these vivid dreams of being a highborn girl. He's starting to remember more from them now that they've happened a couple times, though the details go to mist and vapor like any dream when he tries to think about them during the day.

But he's not totally awake yet, so he lingers on that image of her perfect tits in the water --the rosebud pink nipples, how soft and sensitive they were as he soaped them-- and he reaches down and quickly jerks himself to release with a groan.

Maybe one day he'll be able to afford to be with a girl, have a family. Until then, he'll happily picture his dream lady.

He relaxes in the sense of satisfaction for a couple minutes before he forces himself to roll to the side. Morning bells haven't rung yet, which means he has time to try to grab a bite from the kitchen. He opens his eyes and blearily realizes he's wearing his tunic to sleep again.

Odd. Then he spots words written in charcoal on the wall out of the corner of his eye and he startles, instantly, unwillingly wide-awake.

He knows that smudged writing. He leafed through her journal just earlier, in his dreams.

Mother's mercy, this can't actually be happening. He must be going mad.

** _Hi, Gendry._ **

** _Can't afford paper or ink, so this'll have to do? I'm so sorry but I don't know much about smithing and I had no idea you started work so early so Master Mott was angry most of the day until I sold a bunch of things. Lucky for you I know plenty about weapons and armor and how to tell when customers are bluffing! He also said that you have a lesson at the Sept today so you'd better not miss it. _ **

** _Put the balm on your feet before you go to bed and always wear socks with boots unless you want to lose your toenails to Whitetoe! I thought everybody knew things like that!_ **

** _Hot Pie was nice- he helped me out with some old bread yesterday, so maybe thank him again? And I think Marna the serving girl fancies you. Helped carry water from the well for her and she was really pleased- do you like her back?_ **

** _King's Landing is way more fun as a boy. Thanks, and sorry again if I ruined what you were making. I hope you can fix it, _ **

** _Arya_ **

Gendry just gapes for a solid minute, heart pounding in his ears, blinking in hopes that the words on the wall will fade to vague impressions like the dreams do.

They don't.

He frowns with increasing panic as he reads and re-reads. Since when has living in King's Landing been _fun_? Unless...

His eyes widen and he automatically slides his fingers between the straw pallet and bedframe. The relief when he finds the small leather bag is short-lived: a quick tally reveals that it's missing ten copper pennies.

“_Seven hells, Arya!_”

* * *

The whole day is like that: righting one disaster she's created –sometimes with his own hands-- before dealing with the next. He fixes poorly hammered steel and re-smelts ore as his master glowers; avoids going near the Laughing Cow, where Marna works, and tries not to feel annoyed that Hot Pie and the other smiths and _even the coal seller, for fucks sake_, all seem to have some funny story about him from yesterday. It's a relief to go to the Sept for his lesson, if only because she couldn't have messed with anything there.

Septon Vernon gives a bunch of lowborn young people reading and writing lessons- probably some kind of church charity, and Master Mott has had him go since last year so he can read orders and write receipts. They don't spend the whole time copying holy texts or hymns like he'd first expected, though. Instead, they write answers to the Septon's questions and then he helps clarify and correct them, things like which houses are buying arms, what goods are in short supply in the markets and whether people are happy with the king.

They all relish the sweet bread he hands out after the lesson, enough to give careful attention to the writing tasks the Septon sets them, but Gendry also enjoys the reading part, when they get to touch and read from actual books. The stories transport him away from King's Landing for a few peaceful minutes, like his dreams, but with no unpleasant consequences.

Such as the shock he gets in the privy, which makes him curse- Arya had obviously bought some spicy food.

He still can't get over that she used ten whole pennies in a single day, but at least the balm, socks, and writing charcoals aren't ending up in a hole in the ground-- and he has to admit that they need to communicate somehow if they're going to manage to get through this.

It also gives him a way to tell her off, which he wishes he could do in person, but, well.

** _Arya,_ **

**_STOP USING MY MONEY. I get a ration from Mott's kitchen, from the stone house behind the shop, in the morning before first bells and at night after seven bells. Whatever your eating burns on the way out and IT'S MY BODY and MY MONEY! Not highborn, I can't just get more without working for it_ **

**_Also, stop talking with Marna! I don't need or want a girl so don't give her ideas!_ **

**_Maybe do accounts or polish armor in the shop if there's no custom. Highborns can figure, right? If you waste more good ore, Mott is going to sell me to the Nights Watch._ **

**_I know you can't help being here, but please don't ruin my life. I've not got anywhere else to go._ **

** _Gendry_ **

He hopes it's enough to stop her from messing things up at the forge again, at least. He hides his money above the doorframe before he goes to bed, although he grudgingly puts the balm on his feet as directed.

When he wakes up as himself again, he's actually surprised. And he wonders if the notes scrawled on the wall show that he's actually losing his mind. Maybe those street beggers that rant and argue with themselves started out by having dreams like this.

He hopes not.

At least nobody ever looks into the space where he sleeps. Still, Gendry volunteers to work on smaller pieces instead of the bigger orders like suits of armor, just in case. Most of those he can finish within a few hours, so unexpected interruptions won't mean having a big project ruined.

Who knows, maybe the dreams will stop and things can just go back to normal.

He should have known better: it's not like any of them ever have a choice once a highborn gets involved.

* * *

Gendry wakes up in Arya's comfortable bed, and there's a gigantic wolf pinning down half the covers next to him.

It's dizzying, going from cozily asleep to heart-pounding terror in a second. He reflexively scrambles away from it, his horrified shout frozen in his throat, falling out of her bed backwards before scrabbling to get away across the floor.

_What in seven hells is a wolf--?!_

Even in a panic, he struggles to think as the enormous wolf yawns and lazily shakes itself, regarding him curiously. Bran's Summer has trotted up to join them a few times, and in her journal, she's mentioned her _direwolf_-

“...Nimeria?”

Her ears flatten suspiciously and she growls low, and Gendry stays there, frozen on the floor, wishing he'd remembered to grab Arya's dagger from under the pillow.

They're both surprised when the door bangs open. A lanky teenage boy with wild curls and an annoyed expression looks from the wolf standing on the bed to where he is on the floor with surprise.

“What in blazes are you doing, Arya, _playing?!_ The Mormonts and Manderlys are taking their leave, remember?”

“...Sorry, milord,” Gendry says automatically, and the boy sneers.

“Well, everyone's already in the courtyard, so get dressed quick! C'mon Nymeria, let's get you in the kennels with the others,” he says, slapping his thigh, and jerking his head. The direwolf gives Gendry one more suspicious huff and stare before following the boy out and Gendry scowls after them.

How was he supposed to know how to say such a fancy name?

He looks down at Arya's body. She's got the white gown on again and her left hand is bandaged and still hurting real bad. He has a dim memory of a septa shouting at him for trying to walk downstairs wearing this, and he still doesn't see what makes this fit only for sleeping in when it's made of finer cloth than most of the dresses he's seen girls wear.

He'll have to ask about that. He can't yell at her for her messing up things for him if he's gotten her in worse trouble.

He hopes Bran can get him through this courtyard thing- it sounds official. Now he just has to get changed and get there without getting lost in the castle again.

Arya's day clothes are slung over the chair at her desk, as usual. And he notes with relief that her journal is purposely open on the desk. He bends over to read it as he dresses in her tunic and trousers hurriedly before slinging the heavy furred cloak over her shoulders. The cloak is different from before- must be for the occasion.

_Hello Arya._

_I didn't think this was real but here I am again. I'm sorry your hand is hurt so bad but Bran says it's good because I can pretend to be you easier that way. Maester Luwin said I should rest your hand so I been reading some of the books in your room. I like the ones with the dragons. Also, Sansa said she wanted to make you a gown for her wedding and I didn't want to argue with her so I agreed and she measured you for it. I hope that's all right._

_Hope your hand heals quick. _

_Gendry_

He vaguely remembers writing that. It's his handwriting, and it sounds like himself, anyway. He struggles with her socks and well-worn boots while reading her reply.

_To Gendry,_

_Thanks. I suppose we really are switching places? I got some of my old books from Rickon's room for you. There are lots of dragons in them, and the tales are epic. I hope you like them._

_Not surprised Bran and the Reeds are helping you out- I'm sure neither of us are doing this on purpose. Bran and Jojen are greenseers, so they can see things normal people can't. If this were some evil magic they would sense it, I'm sure, and if it isn't some kind of hex, there's probably a reason for it. This only impacts my training time, and I can only do stealth and blindness drills until my hand heals anyway. Make sure you go to Maester Luwin to change the dressing once a day if he doesn't come find you. His numbing balm will make the pain easier to bear, too._

_Well, I was asking for new leather armor, but it doesn't matter. Sorry you had to get measured for me; I know it's tedious. Hope Sansa didn't stick you “by accident” with pins either, but I don't think I've done anything to annoy her recently except the robe ripping, and that was you, so. I hope it's not too annoying with all the siblings all the time- at least Jon and Theon have left, so you have a couple less people to deal with!_

_Best of luck today and I'll try to stay out of trouble as you too,_

_Arya_

He doesn't understand parts of it, but there's no time to try to figure them out- he hurries downstairs right after.

“That way to the courtyard?” he asks a serving maid, and she blinks, obviously confused.

“Yes, milady, they're all in the courtyard?”

“Through that door?”

“Yes, milady?”

He hopes her baffled look isn't because he's done Arya's clothing up wrong, and he's relieved to see Bran there in front of several lines of people, all dressed fine, beckoning him towards the space between him and Sansa. He gives a hasty bow to her lord father and mother out of habit and winces internally-- maybe Arya wouldn't have done that.

Robb's bemused smile confirms that she wouldn't have. Oh well.

“Arya! Your hair!” Sansa murmurs, and Gendry scowls. Right. Of course he'd missed something.

“Sorry! Was already late.”

“Well, you don't need to apologize to me, idiot! It's the Mormonts and Manderlys we're supposed to be showing our respect to.”

Gendry looks anxiously at Bran, who gives him an encouraging smile. “Morning, Arya. You're just in time.”

Then the courtyard goes silent and the lords and ladies speak to each other with warm, formal goodbyes while everybody looks on. He'd thought there'd be more to it, but it seems all Arya had to do was stand there like a witness. On time. With a fancy cloak on and properly done hair.

So he's surprised when the little Mormont girl approaches him with a friendly smile. “Thanks again for showing me Braavosi waterdancing and your Needle. You're welcome any time on Bear Island. Once your hand is better, I'm sure you can teach me a lot more.”

Gendry tries to smile. “...Right. That was... really good.”

The Mormont girl frowns, obviously puzzled, but she inclines her head and he does the same back, and then she goes back to mount her horse with the rest of her house.

Gendry exhales with relief when none of the Manderlys come up to bid personal farewells to Arya, although he notices that Sansa and Robb, in particular, both give and receive plenty of warm wishes.

_Right. Robb's the heir and Sansa's to be married soon._

Once all the highborns are mounted, they ride out the gate, banners fluttering high. He thinks one is a bear and the other is some fish man holding a fork. He knows Arya's house is some sort of scaly wolf, because those banners hang all over the castle, but he doesn't think he's ever seen any of these in King's Landing. 'Course, he doesn't really know many of them except the important ones, like the yellow stag of the King hung all over the city and the Lannister Lions who buy plenty from Mott's shop. 

* * *

Once the last of the procession is off, the lines of people standing at attention scatter to get on with the day. Bran tugs him along and the Reeds fall into step on either side, as if they'd prearranged things.

“That was perfect,” Bran assures him, keeping an anxious eye out as they weave through the crowd, “Arya's never on time or properly dressed for these sorts of things. We should ride off before Mother hunts you down for a reprimand, though.”

Jojen holds up a cloth tied with a knot at the top. “Got you some bread and bacon and a plum to break your fast.”

Gendry blinks with dismay as they steer him along, thinking longingly of the books stacked on the desk in Arya's room; of the rather larger meal he'd been looking forward to. “I've never ridden anything but the backs of wagons. And she's already hurt without me trying new things with her body again,” he protests.

Bran smiles dismissively. “Don't worry. Her body remembers how to move on a horse, even if you don't.”

Gendry gives him a disbelieving look. “How can you think that? I couldn't do the dance.”

“Muscle memory is different than the kind of memory you consciously recall. I'm a skinchanger- what you might know as a warg. And I've never caught an updraft with wings or prey in my jaws with this body, but it's second nature when I'm warging a bird or a direwolf. If you think back, you'll realize you knew, somehow, to turn in circles in Arya's- you were just thinking too hard about the details. This will be a much simpler motion.”

Gendry's mouth falls open, still stuck on the first part of Bran's explanation. “..._You can change bodies with animals?_”

Bran crinkles his nose thoughtfully and shakes his head. “Not exchange bodies like you and Arya- more like... help control. Arya can too --all of my siblings can-- to a degree. The blood of the First Men runs true in us.”

Meera tilts her head curiously. “Gendry, are your parents Northerners as well?”

Gendry shrugs. “I dunno. My mum died when I was little. She had yellow hair, which I don't see 'round here. Never knew who my dad was.”

They all exchange disappointed looks before Bran sighs. “This is all such a mystery. If we had more training, _proper training_, we might be able to see why or what is actually happening,” Bran says, wincing and putting his hand out. They all stop so he can rub his knee.

Gendry frowns. “Should we ask the Maester? Maesters have written down things for centuries, right? Maybe he's read about something like this.”

Meera shakes her head. “Maesters don't believe in magic or visions or wargs. They're trained not to, even when it's right in front of them. He'd think Arya had an affliction of the mind, or was merely acting like a player in a show. Because those things are more likely than something happening that _he _can't sense.”

Jojen puts his hand on Bran's arm and speaks softly. “The time will come soon enough.”

Bran puts his hand over Jojen's and they smile at each other in a way that makes Gendry flush and look away. _Oh._

Meera gives him an anxious, searching look before she smiles with forced cheer. “Well, you liked feeding the horses well enough. This is your chance to learn how to saddle and ride them, in case you ever get the chance to in future.”

Gendry scoffs. “Yeah, I doubt that. Can't even feed my real self as well as you do your horses. 'sides, it's hard remembering what happens once I wake up- this all just...” he gestures vaguely, “like any dream. But I suppose if Arya would do it, I should try while I'm here.”

He frowns, thinking back to her note. “She said something about missing training- stealth and blindness?”

They all hesitate before Meera shrugs it off with a smile. “She trains every day. Many of us do. To be ready.”

Gendry blinks when she doesn't elaborate. “...Ready for what?”

Bran looks north. “Haven't you heard our house words?” he says lightly, “Winter is coming.”

* * *

Bran was half right: once he gets on the horse, Arya's body knows exactly how to move. Unfortunately, he's still not Arya, and the horse can sense how nervous he is. He can see the whites of its eyes and it shakes its head and fights the bit more than he thinks it should.

“Don't hold the reins so tightly, but don't let them go slack either. You're directing the horse, not pulling it along,” Meera advises. Gendry tries to relax and do as she says, and when the horse seems to settle, he actually finds riding rather pleasant. There's a soothing rhythm to it, and the castle looks nice as they ride away from it, if rather lonely, standing by itself. He's so used to seeing buildings crowded up close.

He's looked out the docks towards the sea before, at the naked sky and restless waves stretching to the horizon. It just made him uneasy, all that water deep enough to drown in. The wind blowing through the yellowing grass makes similar looking waves, but there are occasional rabbits bounding around and birds fluttering up out of it searching for food and scolding each other. A wood in the distance is in pretty shades of red and gold, and the horse clop-clops steadily under him towards it.

His first ride is all right until they're climbing the rocky hill to the wood.

The first warning they get are howls. Gendry looks back and shouts when he sees two huge wolves streaking towards them.

Bran calls a warning even as the horse wickers and stamps with agitation under him. “Relax, Gendry! It's just Shaggydog and Nymeria.”

“She doesn't like me! She knows I'm not Arya!” Gendry shouts back, frantically trying to restrain the horse.

Then it rears and he goes flying.

Two things happen then that he doesn't expect: he curls into a ball automatically as he hurtles through the air. He rolls when he hits the ground and comes up on his –Arya's-- feet with unexpected grace and agility.

He gapes at himself, unhurt in her agile little body, and then looks up to see that Bran is limp in Jojen's arms on the back of their horse, his eyes white and unseeing.

And Arya's horse is now suddenly calm and quiet, walking placidly towards him.

It takes him only a moment to understand.

“...Bran? Is that you?” Gendry gasps. The horse nods once, and then kneels so he can mount again easily.

“You highborns have crazy lives,” he says faintly. Jojen snorts with laughter and Meera huffs impatiently.

“Just get on the horse! Shaggydog likes knocking people over for fun and he's not a pup anymore- he can kill you just playing. You need to get off the ground until they're less excited,” Meera explains.

Gendry obeys, and the horse –-who is actually Bran, now-- stands up again and they climb to the top of the hill and wait patiently for the direwolves to arrive.

Shaggydog and Nymeria yip and growl, running circles around them, and Gendry is grateful that Bran is in control of his horse because he is utterly terrified, and he can see Meera struggling to keep her mount steady out of the corner of his eye. The wolves stand almost as high as the horses themselves, and they are all predator; sleek fur and muscle with sharp teeth. 

“You found us, you found us! Now settle, Shaggydog! Down, Nymeria! Sit! Sit! Yes, you're very clever!” Jojen assures them, grinning and unafraid. 

To Gendry's surprise, both direwolves do as bid and sit after making another energetic lap around them, although he cringes when Nymeria catches his eye and snarls. They all stand there, Shaggydog's tail thumping happily and his mouth open in what looks like a grin until Nymeria's snarl dies and she lays her head down.

Gendry can feel it happen: his horse suddenly shakes its head, as if dizzy, and a moment later Bran suddenly takes a breath again in his own body, his eyes back to normal.

“I'm fine,” he assures Jojen quietly, and then he dismounts clumsily, limping over. “Come. I'll introduce you properly.”

They both approach Nymeria, who growls and then whines.

“I know,” Bran soothes, “but Gendry is Arya's friend. They're bound too, so you have to get used to him.”

Gendry frowns a little- what is that supposed to mean?

“Hold out your hand towards her. Flat, palm out.”

“Won't I just smell like Arya?” he says, but he complies reluctantly.

Nymeria's ears are flat against her head, but she edges forward and sniffs.

Then she licks his palm, which tickles. She moves suddenly then, straightening so that she can start licking his face, almost like she's trying to stick her tongue in his mouth.

“Nymeria! Okay, we're friends, but back off!” he protests, huffing a laugh. He gives her a tentative scratch behind the ears when she settles back on her haunches.

This she seems to like immensely, and Shaggydog shoves in to demand his own share as well, knocking Gendry over.

Bran looks pleased. “It seems they like you.”

He says it like he's relieved, as if it's confirmation. Gendry doesn't ask why- he'd be suspicious of some stranger magically in his sister's body too. And he's glad Nymeria has decided he's all right.

* * *

“Arya!”

Gendry starts guiltily and tries not to wince. Well, Bran had warned him that a reprimand would be coming from Arya's mother. He should just be glad that he got a good supper first.

“Well, I suppose I should just be thankful you were there this morning at all, although you might thank Rickon as well.” Her eyes widen suddenly. “Have you not been to Maester Luwin's today?” she gasps as she takes Arya's hand.

“Arya, you really need to learn to take better care of yourself! Look at how it's seeped through, how much _dirt_ is on this! You need to keep the wound as clean and dry as possible or it might fester- you should know this by now! How many years have you done this _barbaric_-”

She cuts herself off, lips pressed in a grim line. Then she jerks her head and Gendry follows as she walks briskly out of the dining room.

“Was mostly using my right hand today,” Gendry says weakly. He's not used to being able to pay for a Maester's services, but this is Arya's body and she's an important lord's daughter. What's worse is she'd reminded him and he'd just favored the hand and ignored the pain.

She takes him straight to the Maester, who glances at the bandage and then gives him a dry look that makes Gendry both feel guilty and want to roll his eyes. “I'm sorry, all right? Went for a ride with Bran and the Reeds and I forgot.”

Her lady mother sighs. “Well, at least you spent a _single _day quietly reading and resting your hand. I thought Syrio Forel had taught you to be more aware of yourself. There's only one of you, Arya, and the people who love you worry when you're careless,” she admonishes.

“I know. I'll do better, I promise,” he says. He's surprised when she smooths Arya's tangled hair and presses a kiss to her head. It brings a lump to his throat.

“I beg to differ, my lady. You worry about all your children, regardless,” Maester Luwin says.

She gives a short laugh. “Still, some more than others,” she concedes, giving Gendry a fond, resigned smile.

Gendry turns his head- his eyes and nose sting. He'd forgotten how nice it was to have a mother.

* * *

He's still feeling rather guilty when he writes using Arya's quill and ink.

_Arya,_

_I think Nymeria isn't going to bite me now, but she scared the shit out of me this morning- not funny at all waking up with a pissed off wolf in your bed. _

_I got thrown off your horse and tumbled like a circus player and didn't get hurt. Bran said your body remembered from things you learned in Braavos. We went riding and fishing and the wolves caught rabbits and shared with us. Had a whole apple tart after supper._

_Thanks for getting the books for me. Your family has been really nice. Sorry my life isn't like this._

_Gendry_

Her hand really does feel a lot better with the balm and fresh bandage on it, and Gendry guiltily hopes she doesn't find out he'd neglected it. He's extra careful to comb out her hair and wash off all the dirt he'd gotten on her today while keeping her left hand dry, although he can't help but touch her pretty tits for awhile after he takes off her tunic. He wonders how they'd feel cupped in his own hands.

Not that he's ever going to get the chance to do this for real: even without all the miles between them, he's just some bastard smith. But he can admire her body while he's here, and he's rather regretful when he pulls on her white sleeping gown, knowing exactly what's underneath.

Still, he's been looking forward to her books all day, and he settles into bed with one happily.

The note inside the front cover makes his eyes widen.

**To my dearest friend,**

**Because you can't borrow my copy anymore, I thought you'd like your own!**

**Wishing you a wonderful Nameday, Arya, with hopes that we shall meet again in future~**

** Princess Shireen Baratheon **

Of course Arya is friends with _an actual princess_. It's sobering, seeing written confirmation of just how different they really are.

He reads until his eyes can't stay open any longer, not sure if he'll be waking up or dreaming once he falls asleep. Despite every day being full of shocks and scrambles here, he wishes he didn't have to leave.


	3. Warp/Weft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _その手を壊さずに どう握ったならいい？ (How can I hold your hand tight without breaking it?)_  
  
"Zenzenzense", RADWIMPS  


_(“You were born here? In King's Landing?”_

“_Yes, milord.”_

“_And your father?”_

“_...Was always just me and my mum until she died.”_

“_I'm sorry to hear that... You're what? Seventeen? Eighteen, maybe?”_

“_Eighteen on my last nameday, milord.”) _

* * *

Arya wakes up with a start. Her hand aches with pain, and she grimaces.

So she's herself again. And with these forced interruptions her body is getting soft, especially in comparison to how strong and muscular Gendry is from working every day. Whereas she needs to get as much training in as she can before Sansa's stupid wedding drags them all away from Winterfell for weeks.

She rolls out of bed and makes for the desk. Surely Gendry has left her a note.

She can't help but chuckle when she reads it.

_Right. Oops. Sorry, Gendry._

Then her smile turns wistful.

She quite likes the freedom away from her family, without the bickering and nagging and expectations. She supposes she's never really been lonely like him.

* * *

_Gendry,_

_I'm glad you liked the books- they're some of my favorites. And I actually quite like your life- you make things, beautiful things. I've never had a talent for that. Maybe I should try using your right hand to see if your body remembers, too. And living in a city is exciting- things move so slowly here and everybody knows who everybody else is. It's nice to just be no one in a crowd, to not have to carry any responsibility for anybody but yourself._

_Anyway, I'm afraid my moonblood is due soon, and the first day is always the worst. In case you're here for it, I keep the rags in the bottom drawer: fold one into a pad and tuck it in my smallclothes. Change it every couple of hours, or if the blood goes all the way through. Put the used rags and soiled smallclothes into a bucket of water so the stains don't set- the maid will wash them and return them. Let her know if the blood gets on the bedding too. I had to do all the washing myself, by hand, in Braavos, so consider yourself lucky! I know it's annoying, but it can't be helped. One of the joys of being a woman. _

_Best of luck as me,_

_Arya_

* * *

“What do you see when you look at him?”

“Your face, but his too, and a thread of sorts going to the Heart Tree. Sometimes he has bulls horns turning into a stag's- I don't know what that means and neither does Jojen. He walks differently than you, and he's quiet instead of talkative. Robb and Rickon think you've picked up a Braavosi accent, but it has to be the way they talk in King's Landing.”

“So... it's like me speaking with a Flea Bottom accent?”

“It's_ really funny_ to hear you call me milord.”

“Oh, shut up!”

“...He never tells me to do that either.”

“Brandon Stark-- !”

* * *

“It's all in the timing and temperature, actually. Some places would put sawdust in, just to give it bulk, but all dough needs is a bit of time to rise proper, is all. Overnight will do it. Keep a bit as starter in a warm place, and you're good to go for the next batch. The ones that cut corners; that's what gets the fines comin'. Them Goldcloaks don't like to find a bit of wood in their teeth at all, do they? Still, if they're takin' shortcuts like sawdust, plain stupid not to sift it. More custom for us in the end, I suppose, but it's a waste of good flour, really.”

“...You only ever talk about baking?”

“You're grumpy again today, huh? You know, I always liked that you're a good listener, but it's nice when you ask questions more. I think you're actually handsome when you smile.”

“...”

“You going to go walking with Marna again?”

“..._What?!_”

“Marna. From the Laughing Cow.”

“_I know where she works_\- what do you mean _walking_?”

“Didn't you have a cup 'o stew there and then go out walking after last night?”

“...Gods, I told her not to!”

“Well, I'm sure she don't mind givin' you the stew when you bein' nice and chatty like. It's the _surliness _you got to cut out, is what I'm sayin'.”

“That's not who I'm- ! Bloody blazin' _hells_.”

“I'd watch the language, too, if I were you.”

“Shut _up_, Hot Pie!”

* * *

_ **You might of mentioned going walking with Marna again when I told you NOT TO. STOP! I don't know what to say when she comes up smiling and touching my arm!** _

_ **Thanks for doing the books for Mott, anyway. He's real pleased and I think he's forgiven the ore. ** _

* * *

_Arya,_

_Is it always this cold up here? You could of told me about the cramps! I thought you'd eaten a bad bowl but Sansa said it was just the moonblood and she got me some tea for it. Nymeria felt bad for me too. Or maybe she just wanted to sleep in your bed and get petted all day. Anyway, I got to read lots and Sansa taught me to embroider. I only ever sewed patches before this, but it's like making a picture out of thread. _

_Bran and Jojen- is that all right up North with your old gods? I guess I don't know why it's so wicked but men get dragged before the Sept for buggery all the time. We can hear them wailing even when the steel's singing. I'm glad that will never happen to them- I never met anybody real gentle like they are, you know?_

_Gendry_

* * *

_ **Well, since you hid your money, I have to feed your poor body somehow! What you call a ration is just scraps and not enough to sustain anybody. Besides, Marna's nice and she likes you! Well, maybe she likes you more when you are me? People are more generous when you're friendly, you know. And she told me all about different places in King's Landing- she knows lots of working folks in the area.** _

_ **Just talk to her like a regular person. Ask about her day. Ask her what things she likes. Tell her what things you like. Ask her if she's tried them before. Be interested in people and they'll be more interested in you. Maybe scowl less. Hot Pie says you do that too much.** _

* * *

_Gendry,_

_I can't believe you stayed in bed because of the cramps! I usually just chin up and get on with things. I never thought a blacksmith would be such a bookworm- you surprise me, Gendry. _

_Thank you for doing another dress fitting too- I appreciate it. Sansa is delighted I've learned to stand so patiently and take up “womanly pastimes”. I wonder what she would think if she knew you were really a a big, strong boy. She's not as snipey as I remember, anyway. I don't know- maybe we both grew up while I was away._

_My hand is starting to heal, so I've been warming up with my staff a little. Don't want the scar tissue to end up hard and stiff, so please don't just read all the time! Meera can show you how to use the bow. I've been trying to learn some things from Mikken too, so I'm not so bad at pretending to be you, so if you want to go to our forge, that won't look too strange either._

_Bran and Jojen were born on the same day, hundreds of miles apart. Old Nan thinks they were two halves of the same soul and were bound to find each other. I think maybe that's true? Greenseers are even rarer than wargs, and to have two born in the same generation is a miracle nowadays._

_Stand in front of the Heart Tree and try to lie, I dare you. And you'll see why the old gods don't care about Bran and Jojen- they're just holding true to who they are. They don't have all the rules the new ones do, anyway. I think Mother turns a blind eye because he's not the heir and Robb's already had a son, even though it makes her nervous. She's from the South, so she follows the Faith and brought Septa Mordane here to teach us so we wouldn't be “heathens”. Honestly, I don't understand why they pray to gods they can only feel in their own hearts. But I guess I don't understand how our gods could let men cut down all the Heart Trees down south either._

_Give Nymeria a pat for me,_

_Arya_

_P.S. It's “could have” by the way, not “could of.” And you're welcome, not your._

* * *

Gendry groans when he wakes up. Arya's bed is so soft and warm- there's such a chill in the air that he's reluctant to get out. Why do Northerners live where the weather can kill you? It's sad watching leaves fall, leaving their branches shivering and bare in the wind, but he's looking forward to seeing snow for the first time despite the deepening cold.

Nymeria isn't here either, so she must have gone out at night. Gendry's grateful for the privacy, and he cups Arya's breasts with a sigh, gently tracing the nipples until they harden.

He starts guiltily when the door bangs open and jerks his hand down as Rickon gives him a sneer of disgust. “What are you touching your own tits for?”

Gendry flushes, glad he's wearing Arya's nightgown, at least. “...As if you never jerk off!”

Rickon turns red. “...Shut up, Arya! What do you know?!”

“Know enough about boys to know that!”

“Just- ! Get your lazy bones up for breakfast already!”

Rickon slams the door shut angrily and Gendry realizes Arya's left hand hurts with how hard he's clenching it. He relaxes it immediately, giving it a gentle rub.

He hopes Rickon doesn't tell Arya. He shouldn't be messing with her body like it's his.

He suddenly wonders what Arya thinks of his own body.

It strikes him then that she's had to hold his cock, if only to piss.

That thought leaves him rather breathless all over again.

* * *

Arya wakes up, aware of the tension in Gendry's body; how the blanket tents over his hips._ Gods, every single morning._

She's seen plenty of naked men- she'd had to prepare dead bodies in Braavos while learning under The Waif and The Man-- but none of the bodies were ever in this condition. She'd learned many things from the cadavers: where organs were; which blood vessels to cut and how and where; how to slip a blade through the weaknesses in armor into the flesh beneath. But she wasn't taught anything about these parts beyond how easy the flaccid, sad-looking wrinkly things were to hurt.

It's strange to suddenly be in possession of one that doesn't look sad and wrinkly at all. That feels so good when she touches it.

She wonders if he's ever stuck it in a girl. Marna sure seems eager for Gendry to stick it in her, but she can't tell if Gendry is so belligerent about it because he really does like Marna or if he's more interested in boys and that's why he was asking about Bran and Jojen.

Impossible to play the Game of Faces when she's looking through his eyes all the time; when they can only talk through notes and letters.

From the reflection off the armor in the shop, she thinks he's handsome too.

Her heart aches a little when she thinks of tall, pretty Marna, with her golden curls and big bosom, putting her arm around Gendry's like he belongs to her.

* * *

_ **You can leave the grammar to the Septon, milady high!** _

_ **How can someone so small in real life be such a huge pain in my arse? I hid the money for a reason and I already told you to stop buying whatever it is that burns! Stick to the ration already!** _

* * *

_Gendry,_

_Can you quit the sewing already? Sansa is starting to expect me to! Just when I thought we were getting better at this!_

_There's a feast for Sansa in a few days, to bid her farewell. In case you're here for it, you should practice eating with the fork. Mother will notice if you use your hands at the head table, and you won't be able to sneak off for that. Before you get all annoyed: there will be lemoncakes, which are Sansa's favorite. Father had the lemons shipped up especially and they are really good. I'm actually sad that I might miss them, but make sure you try one before she eats them all! (She will. I'm serious.)_

_Arya_

* * *

“Thought you liked Marna. What you givin' her the cold shoulder for again?”

Arya shrugs, mouth full of the old crusts Hot Pie has brought. “Maybe I prefer a girl with more brains than boobs.”

Hot Pie looks scandalized. “Why would any man in his right mind prefer that? You could have had a good thing going with her! I heard the Laughing Cow has real beef in their stew sometimes!”

Arya can't help scowling.

* * *

“You sure you don't want me to make that for you, milady?”

“No, I got it. For my sister, after all. And it's soft enough that I can work it easy.”

Gendry can't help feeling jealous over how easily he'd gotten this silver as Arya. Hells, Master Smith Mikken had _offered _it when he'd heard who it was meant for. He has more silver than he'd earn in months in Arya's little hands. There are so many tools at his disposal too, and he's working slowly and deliberately- control is the key when the metal is this malleable.

“You learned how to craft jewelry in Braavos, then?”

Gendry shrugs and smiles to himself. He usually only does a bit of embellishing on sword pommels and guards with brass. “Something like that.”

* * *

_ **I'm just trying to help you write correctly- you don't have to be angry about it.** _

_ **And it's just Dornish curry. You told me to stop talking to Marna, so I did, and it's far less dodgy than bowls of brown! It's YOUR BODY that I'm feeding! Besides, I'm working for that money too! ** _

* * *

_Arya,_

_Thanks for the warning. Bran and the Reeds helped me practice. And I saved a lemoncake for you- it's wrapped in cloth next to the journal. I know it's probably better fresh, but since you said you like them._

_Gendry_

* * *

“Hello, there. Wondering if it would be possible to have a custom weapon made within a couple of weeks? I know this isn't a Braavosi shop, but heard tell you do custom work.”

At the word Braavosi, Gendry looks up from the shield he's hammering. It's odd, but the man seems familiar. He's sweating heavily and he has long, dark, wavy hair.

Mott unfurls the piece of paper the man gives him, and frowns. “A Water Dancer's sword? Might be best to try the import shops near the docks.”

“Already have. Need one with a smaller pommel, and less heavy. Suitable for a young... lad.”

“We don't make toys here.”

“Nor is it meant to be one. Needs to be made properly, just smaller to learn with.”

Gendry speaks up. “A slender steel sword, edged and balanced, 'bout a foot long? I could do it, Master.”

Mott gives him a surprised look, but he's not about to argue when a commission for custom work is at stake.

The man inhales as he looks Gendry up and down, as if sizing him up. Gendry ignores the skepticism and points to the sketch as he thinks.

“I'd make the finishing and guard from brass to keep it from rusting, and cover the hilt with leather so it's easy to grip. Need a scabbard too?”

“Can you do it all for twenty stags?”

“Can't do it for less than forty. We use good steel, fine as castle forged. That ore comes at a premium here. Good leather that will last isn't cheap either,” Mott says.

“Fair enough. You sure you can make this, boy?”

“Sure. I handled a similar sword enough.” Gendry doesn't mention that it's been in his dreams. And that he could finish it faster if he wasn't forced out of his own body every couple of days. “You can come by in a week to check on it. By then I should have both blade and pommel done.”

The man nods. “This is a gift, so it had better be well crafted.”

“Of course, my lord. We take half upfront, half upon completion. Refund you the deposit if it's not what you want, but then we keep the sword to sell as we wish,” Mott states.

“It's a bargain, then.” They grip forearms and then the man continues. “You can make out the receipt to Jon Snow. I'm buying this on his behalf.”

Gendry blinks in surprise. “That a Northern name?”

“That it is.”

He's about to ask if he might know of his Arya when he realizes he's never learned her last name. Startling to realize he's never felt closer to anybody, but they've never actually met.

* * *

“How's the Bringer of the Dawn doing?”

Arya rolls her eyes before she brings the staff down decisively and then assumes resting pose. “Don't call me that.”

Robb chuckles. “All right, then. How's the hand?”

Arya holds it up and flexes it experimentally. “Better. Still sore and stiff and itchy, but the stitches are out. Should have full function back in a couple weeks- I do this every year, Robb.”

“I know. Don't have to like it, though.” Robb gives it his own inspection and nods with satisfaction.

“What are you looking for?” Arya asks, resuming her drills.

He smiles charmingly- the way he always has when he wants something. “Ah- just wanted to see if you were healed enough to hunt for the kitchens. Be nice to have another decent bowman now that Jon and Theon are gone.”

Arya stops and grins, utterly pleased. “Truly?”

Robb nods. “Fall's setting in properly, so game is starting to get harder to find. Would like to get some more meat stocked before winter now that it'll stay frozen for certain, and Mother wants the furs and feathers too.”

Arya hesitates, considering hard before making a face. “I do need to practice with my bow, but I should do it from the walls. I've lost whole weeks of training to this stupid injury.”

“And Winter is coming.”

“And Winter is coming. Thanks, though. I'd love to go another time.”

Robb smiles easily and dips his head respectfully. “Absolutely. You've been a crack shot since you were eleven- we've missed you.”

That makes Arya's eyes and nose sting a little, even though she smiles. “Thanks.”

He turns to leave and Arya calls after him. “Wait- Robb? Can I ask you a question?”

She chews her lip for a second before she continues. “Just- hypothetically. Do you think Father would let me marry someone lowborn if he had a good trade?”

Robb inhales with consternation and gives her a searching look. “That... is an oddly specific question. And you might be a second-born daughter, but I _know_ he'd want to make a better match for you than just some common tradesman, Arya. _You're a Stark._”

He frowns and his eyes narrow. “You've been spending more time than you used to at the forge, haven't you?”

Arya scowls. “It's not anybody at Mikken's! It was just a question, Robb!”

“Still. I do believe my sword needs a whetstone,” he muses aloud, striding off towards the forge.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes again and keeps on practicing. Robb can make his stupid vague threats and interrogate all the smiths in Winterfell he likes.

The one who she's trying not to think about is hundreds of miles from here anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two settings, three timelines, this is fine. *is actually sweating* LOL  
Hope this made sense! (Zenzenzense?) Thanks especially to lyrawhite for all the support!


	4. Snag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What is the life of one bastard boy?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it isn't Game of Thrones if people aren't in danger of dying, so... sorry?

**That was smart, trading sharpening for the leather and keeping the coin. I guess I don't mind eating curry if I can trade for it too- which shop do you go to?**

**And what do you mean Hot Pie and the miller have a thing? What thing?**

* * *

_Dear Arya,_

_Rhaenys was the better rider so she must have killed more people, even if Visenya was the better warrior. Do you know what happened to Dark Sister after she died though? Please don't tell me some idiot melted it down for the throne. _

_Finished the bracelet for Sansa. Made you something too- they're supposed to be armor piercing. Wanted to try it since you have great quality steel up here. I hope you like them._

_Gendry_

* * *

**He's always going on about their cornmeal, and he blushes when he talks about her. Don't you think? **

**Head down to Fishmonger's Square, near the River Gate. None of them have name placards, but you can smell the spices. Most of the curries have fish or squid in them but it's as good for your body as meat, I promise. They make them fresh every day, as is Dornish custom.**

**Let me know when I'm allowed near your workbench again. I promise I won't ruin anything! **

* * *

Arya hates resenting Bran for anything, but sometimes she wishes she could have been born a boy.

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, so even though the rest of the family is travelling down to the Frey's for Sansa's wedding, Bran gets to stay home.

It feels wrong to resent somebody as inherently kind-hearted as Bran too, which makes it doubly annoying.

But Robb must go as well to pay respect to Roslin's family and introduce them to little Ben, so Ned Stark's second trueborn son must remain at Winterfell to listen to patrol reports and send aid if it is called for. Wildlings are coming around and over The Wall in ever increasing numbers lately, and Starks must always ward the North.

It feels frivolous to be travelling instead of staying and training after she's already lost weeks, but Autumn should hold for a few more months. It's just that her fate is on the horizon now too, like the comet that's appeared.

Sansa thinks it's auspicious. Maester Luwin has calculated that it should be right overhead around the time for the wedding, a comet the color of love streaking across the sky, so bright and close that they can see it during the day.

She's glad Sansa will be further south once winter comes anyway, and she thinks that is part of why Father agreed to the match. The Freys are wealthy and strategically important for a lower house, to be sure, but Robb had already married Roslin Frey years ago. Arya had always thought Theon would ask for Sansa's hand, but there's been no word from the Iron Islands since he returned there after his father's death. She wonders if he will come with the Ironborn to support them if war actually comes to Winterfell as prophesied.

But it's not just the prophecy hovering in the back of her skull; the fear that all the years of honing herself might have been for nothing. What would be worse is faltering before the end.

Especially now that she's thoroughly distracted.

She can't stop thinking about him even when she isn't him. Wondering how his day is going down in King's Landing; what unexpected things he'll notice in his next letter.

If he might just feel like she does.

She's never had presents from a boy before. Well, that isn't exactly true, but a present from a brother isn't the same at all.

She'd asked him to help make a wedding present for Sansa, and he'd made a beautiful silver wolf bracelet-- but he'd made _her_ something too. Beautiful, deadly arrowheads.

Her heart skips giddily when she looks at them. She's not sure what to write back now that doesn't sound stupid and sentimental.

* * *

Father finds her in the stables checking her gear and the legs and hooves of her mare. The whole castle is getting ready for the trip, it seems, and they are hauling not only all of Sansa's things, but presents, food and wine for the wedding as well. 

“Arya, there you are. I want to talk to you about something. Something important.”

Arya takes one look at his expression and groans. “Robb was making assumptions! _It was just a question._”

He lifts a brow in acknowledgment before giving his head a slight shake. “The fact remains that you're of marriageable age. And we need to start thinking about your future.”

Arya shrugs uncomfortably and focuses on checking her reins instead. “I'm supposed to 'cease to be', remember?”

“The same prophecy says you'll rise again before you defeat death. You know I have to believe that.”

Arya sighs and looks at her father. He hasn't always looked so worried and grim. “...I'm listening.”

“One of Roslin's brothers, Waldron, will be at the wedding-”

“...You want us _all_ to marry Freys?”

He gives her a reproachful look and starts again calmly. “_What I want_ is simply for you to get to know another lad around your age. See what he's like. We could go down further south as well… perhaps in spring. I can write to the other houses, see what other prospects there are.”

“I'm no lady like Sansa.”

“And I would make that clear. But I fear we've focused so much on preparing for what's been foretold that we haven't paid enough heed to what comes after. We might have wed Sansa more favorably- to Prince Joffrey or perhaps Loras Tyrell-- if we'd been willing to entertain offers sooner.”

Sansa had said as much, but not so bitterly, which means either she had no idea that she missed out on a crown prince -- unlikely-- or something else. Arya frowns over that odd puzzle even as she exhales with frustration. “They don't really care what happens in the North down south! Have they sent any more men to help at The Wall or with all the wildlings? Are their armies ready to march if the dead really come?”

Father frowns. “I'm sure King Robert has a great many more things to worry about-”

“He called Bran a raving doomsayer!”

“-and _we will do our duty_ as wardens of the North, regardless,” he continues sternly. “Politics can be a dangerous game, and perhaps I've done us all a disfavor by staying mostly clear of it. But just because you aren't aware of the whole picture does not mean the protectors of the realm have stood idle, Arya. Stannis is sending us dragonglass from Dragonstone. And they've been sending regular wagonloads of prisoners to serve at the Wall the entire time you've been away. I'll not have you speaking ill of our King, _and my friend_, is that understood?”

Arya lowers her head in acknowledgment but says nothing. Father may not bode any criticism for him, but it's an open secret that King Robert just whores and hunts and drinks while Prince Stannis and the other members of the Small Council run the realm.

They both look up in surprise when the bells start ringing and make for the hall. The only time the bells ring non-stop like this is when a new Stark is born, and Roslin isn't due for months yet. Or--

Her eyes widen with comprehension when Mother rushes toward them through the courtyard, a scrap of parchment in her hand, her eyes full of regret and sympathy.

“I'm so sorry, Ned,” she starts, as if hesitant to go on.

“...But Robert is dead,” he finishes for her, bowing his head and covering his eyes with his hand. Everybody in the courtyard is solemn and silent. The bells continue tolling.

“...How?” His voice sounds strained, like he's crying, and Arya feels a pang of guilt for being so uncharitable earlier.

“On a hunt. A boar. Prince Renly said he'd had too much to drink, and well...”

Arya can picture the drunken king they'd had feast after tedious feast with in the Red Keep. Too fat and too slow. That it hadn't happened sooner is the only wonder.

“Queen Cersei, and the children? Gods, I suppose Joffrey is our King now. At least he's a man grown.”

Mother hesitates then and gives her father the scrap of paper rather than answering. “We received a second raven. From Prince Stannis.”

Even with his eyes wet and red with grief, the news makes him blanch and recoil in a way that Arya's seen only once. He raises his eyes to her mother's with shock.

She meets his eye with equal trepidation, but tilts her head at Arya and gives a slight shake of her head before speaking. “Arya, run and tell Robb to meet us in the Lord's chambers, please.”

Arya does immediately as bid, knowing better than to ask why. They need to decide things- how to pay their respects; whether Sansa's wedding needs to be delayed and so on.

It's easy enough to find Robb, who's already anxiously in search of Father upon hearing the bells. But she can't help but overhear Mother when Robb opens the door.

“-when the crown is now Joffrey's! We should burn it and be done with it! It wouldn't be the first time somebody has pressed their own claim for the throne!”

“Stannis has always been a just man. Hard, but fair, and Princess Shireen is no liar. Robb, you-”

Arya's eyes widen at the sound of her friend's name even as Robb shuts the door behind him.

She puts her ear to the keyhole immediately. And it's not long before she hears her brother exclaim- whatever is on that scrap of paper must be something truly terrible.

Her father speaks bitterly. “I should have suspected! Every natural born child of Robert's has always had the black hair and blue eyes of the Baratheons, from Mya Stone to that smith in King's Landing-”

Her heart seizes painfully for a moment before it starts tripping faster. Gendry has black hair and blue eyes like the king.

She frantically searches her memory for any other black haired, blue eyed smith working on the Street of Steel as he continues.

“-and the baby girl one of his favorites bore him while we were there. While the children we thought Cersei gave him were all golden haired and green eyed as lions! Her and her brother have always been as thick as thieves- we all thought they were unusually close because they were twins. Perhaps we should have expected no less from that oathbreaker, but to pass off those conceived out of incest as Robert's trueborn heirs is... truly an _abomination._”

Arya's eyes get wider still, but she doesn't make a sound, frozen against the door. Her heartbeat is loud in her ears when her mother speaks again. “Well, you know what their next act will be then, to destroy any evidence for Stannis' claims! Tywin Lannister has no qualms putting even women and children to the sword. Just ask Houses Reyne and Tarbeck.”

Arya's heart stops completely. Her face feels fuzzy and numb and she can't breathe. _No, no, no..._

Her father sounds angry, decisive. “I'll write to Lord Varys. He might get them smuggled out of the city before the Lannisters can kill them- Stannis will already have his hands full. I just hope he has enough loyal men with him or I dare not think of the consequences. Cat, that smith was Robert's spitting image! I regretted not offering for his contract then, and now I feel twice the fool. He seemed a good lad.”

“Father, what's done is done. And if the Lannisters get that raven instead, those bastards are _guaranteed_ a death sentence.”

“...You'd have me do _nothing?!_”

“_What else can you do?_ They might not know these children even exist! And if they do, you're likely already too late. _Ned, please._ What is the life of one bastard boy? It's best if we pretend the raven was lost, at least until we know how the other houses stand.”

Arya inhales, suddenly angry. Mother isn't just speaking about Gendry. But that resentment gives her resolve, too, and she slips away from the door.

A raven can fly to King's Landing in a week, but if their switching pattern holds, she can probably be there by tomorrow, or two days at the latest.

She just hopes she's not too late. And that Gendry will understand.

She's going to have to ruin his life to try to save it.

* * *

She's at a loss at first, despite her resolve. The main problem is money: he's lowborn; he can lose a hand or get flogged if he's caught stealing, but she can't see any other way to get him enough funds to get out of the city. Last she checked, he had only two silver stags and the rest is copper stars and pennies.

Even the saddest old nag of a horse will be fifty stags. And it needs to survive a trip of several hundred miles, the last of it through snowy conditions. She's done the trip before, but that was in the height of Summer- it's Autumn now and they've all been advised to prepare accordingly.

The gulf between their stations has never been more painfully clear. She has a well-bred mare standing ready in the stable now, and a saddlebag full of warm clothing and silver in case she finds anything she fancies in a shop on the way. They're not even bringing much in the way of provisions because they'll buy it on the way down south to the Frey's, stopping at holds of bannermen and inns.

She stops. Maybe that's the key. If she can just get him out of the city, maybe to the Crossroads. Too far for Lannisters to travel from King's Landing in random search, but not too far for _her_ to go after the wedding. They'll already be in the Riverlands, after all. She can use her own money to get Gendry a decent horse and saddle then.

She can already picture Gendry's furious words though, the thick black charcoal, all in capitals. He _hates _it when she makes impetuous decisions for him. And this is _huge_. She'll be forcing him to give up his apprenticeship and place at Mott's, and everybody and everything he knows.

She wishes they had the time or means to discuss this even once, that she could warn him. But she's more terrified that she'll not wake up as him at all, the connection between them already severed by Lannister blades.

Surely he wants to meet in person too; he'll understand that she's doing this to save him and not just uprooting his life on a selfish highborn whim. She knows Gendry likes living in Winterfell, that Mikken already admires the work he does, that Father wanted to offer him a place years ago.

And maybe once he's here, she can see if all of these feelings welling up have any place at all.

So she packs another saddlebag, with extra clothes and a cloak she pilfers from Jon's room. She puts more money in her purse, and adds her bow and staff to the pile, pondering all the while what to say to him and how. She can write Gendry one final letter, take a bath, go to bed early, and pleasure herself so that sleep can claim her quickly.

A thought makes her pause though, and she abruptly leaves her chambers, heading for the Godswood.

It's pitch dark, but she's done enough blindness drills to be comfortable walking through the grounds anyway. She knows where every raised root is; the slope of the soil; the slippery surface of the frozen pond.

She stops before the Heart Tree, hesitating as she looks on its mournful face before she dares to speak aloud.

“This is the right thing to do.”

And though tears well up in her eyes, she smiles with relief when the words spill out unhindered.

* * *

She cries again when she wakes up on Gendry's hard sleeping cot. She hugs his body, smiling at his stupid, heedless erection, his big feet sticking out the end of the ratty blanket, the familiar scar on his right hand.

She can save him. Maybe that's the whole reason for this.

Her mother has to be wrong.

She looks around automatically to check for his latest note, ignoring all their old conversations, and blinks with disappointment when she realizes he's not replied.

She swallows, suddenly unsure, scanning the walls carefully. It's not like him to have nothing to say.

His stomach growls though, so she rolls out of bed. Ration first. There's a lot to accomplish today, and she needs every hour so that he can't just furiously undo what she's done like he used to.

* * *

“Gendry. You're up early today.”

“Yes, master. “

Mott smiles without humor and roots in his pocket. “Got your week's wage here. That was a fine commission you made for that lord, boy. More of those, and we can talk about getting to journeyman. Now make sure you get to the Sept for your lesson this morning. Get the coal from Orn's after, then see to the shop.”

Arya blinks when he hands over three copper coins. “Three _pennies_? For a week's work?”

Mott narrows his eyes. “You think your room and board are free, boy? This is King's Landing! I have rent to pay. Ore and coal to buy.”

She nods numbly. “Of course, master.”

No wonder Gendry just goes to bed hungry all the time.

She calms as she bolts his morning ration of last night’s bread and soup, using the bread to scrape up every last drop. Once she gets him to Winterfell, he won't have to live like this.

She thinks, anyway- she actually doesn't know how much apprentices earn. Or how he's supposed to get to Master.

But she's sure at least he'll never be hungry like this again.

* * *

“Have you always favored your left hand, Gendry?”

Arya swallows guiltily and glances up at Lord Varys, dressed in Septon's robes. “I... hurt my right hand at work. But I didn't want to skip the lesson, Septon.”

“Odd that you're able to write at all. Most cannot with their non-dominant hand.”

She smiles weakly and shrugs. She hadn't expected the Master of Whispers to be the one teaching this group of lowborn kids to read and write. She'd just been meaning to steal some parchment out of a book and grab the sweet bread.

She has to admit it's a clever way to get information, though. This must be how Lord Varys builds his network of “little birds”. 

Father said he might actually be able to help get Gendry out of the city though. So she hangs about after the lesson, pretending to re-shelve the books until the room has emptied.

“Was there something else you needed, my child?”

“I know who you really are,” Arya says boldly, lifting her chin. “I saw you at the Red Keep dressed fancier.”

Lord Varys doesn't seem particularly bothered. “People are often dressed well when they are asked to the Red Keep.”

Arya frowns, flushing. “Just... is the reason I get these lessons because of my father?”

Lord Varys shrugs a shoulder noncommittally. “I thought it best to keep an eye on you.”

“So I really am one of King Robert's natural born children?”

Lord Varys pauses, his forehead wrinkling with consternation. “Gendry, it matters little. He did not and will never acknowledge you as such.”

Arya hesitates and then plunges forward. “But is it true, that the queen and her brother are lovers? That Prince Joffrey and-”

Lord Varys cuts her off with an outstretched hand and a nervous shake of his head, glancing at the windows and doors before lowering his voice to a whisper. “Those are _dangerous_ things to say aloud, child_._ _How_ did you...?”

“It doesn't matter. I'm in danger here, aren't I?”

Lord Varys regards her face --Gendry's face-- thoughtfully. “There are some who still remember Robert in his prime. And your resemblance to _him_ is truly uncanny. But old noblemen rarely shop on the Street of Steel when they can send the Masters of their Guard instead. You're quite safe and learning an excellent trade, I assure you.”

“Would you tell the Lannisters about me if they asked you though?”

Lord Varys sighs. “...I would have to inform them of your existence, yes.”

“And if I wanted to get somewhere safer _now_, could you help me?”

“...What is it you want, Gendry?”

“Can you get me out of the city? I don't have enough to buy a horse, but I can work.”

Lord Varys tilts his head. “King's Landing isn't self-sustaining- those outside the city bring everything we consume --food and cloth and coal-- in the gates, or to the docks via ship. Farmers and fishermen and shepherds travel to the capital with their goods, sell them, and then return home with their profits and empty wagons and ships. It's very likely a stag or two would mean somebody would agree to haul something or someone back in an otherwise empty wagon or ship's hold.”

Arya inhales with understanding. “I should ask at the gates then as they're leaving? Or the docks?”

Lord Varys smiles, obviously rather befuddled. “If that is truly your wish. You'd really give up your position at Tobho Mott's? He's one of the most skilled smiths in Westeros and you've already learned a good deal under him. There's no need to run until you are in real danger, Gendry.”

Arya gives him a disgusted look- how can he say that with what's just happened? “He also takes most of my wages for room and board. I can earn a better living in a lord's castle. But thank you, my lord. You've been most helpful.”

Lord Varys inclines his head, obviously rather perplexed.

* * *

It's easy enough to pack up Gendry's things- he doesn't have much to wrap up in the blanket, just his precious bullshead helmet, the balm she spent his money on, a little brass pendant that she thinks must have belonged to his mum, and the one remaining bit of charcoal to write with. The only other things he owns are the clothes on his body. Once that is done, she walks up the Street of Flour to the bakery at the end.

“Hey, Hot Pie. I've decided to leave King's Landing. Headed up north, so. Thought I should say good bye.”

Hot Pie's jaw drops, although he doesn't drop his baking tray. “What?! Are you crazy? Why?”

“...I can make journeyman there faster, I think. Won't have to pay as much just to stay alive anyway.”

“How d'you know that?”

“I just do. I'll miss you though. Appreciate how much you helped me out with all the old crusts and things.”

“Was it those fancy Northern folks that came through yesterday? You goin' with them?”

“What? No, I just- it's time for a change, you know? If I stay here, I might not ever get out.”

Hot Pie nods mournfully before he glances back at the bakery and takes one of the fresh rolls off his pan. “Here. Something to eat on the way. Don't forget me, okay?”

Arya inhales with surprise and gives him a fond smile. “Couldn't even if I wanted to. Thanks, Hot Pie. You take care of yourself, okay?”

“Don't have to worry about me. I'm a survivor. You be careful not to get eaten! I hear there's bears up north, and _wolves_.”

Arya smiles. “There are definitely wolves. But they're all right.”

* * *

Arya grips the man's forearm in a shake, hands over both silver pieces, and then stows the tied up blanket before she clambers onto the back of the wagon. It still smells of cabbages and onions, but she doesn't mind. She's always loved the excitement of travelling, seeing new places and meeting people.

She looks up, wondering why she can't see the comet. Maybe it isn't visible this far south yet. Funny, Maester Luwin had seemed certain the whole of Westeros could see it.

Doesn't matter. She's taken the first step to getting Gendry safely to Winterfell. By tonight, they should camp near Hayford Castle. She plans to stay awake instead of sleeping, so they should be at Brindlewood or even Ivy Inn before Gendry gets his body back. That far away, it'll make more sense for him to just go on to the Crossroads like she'd bargained for, no matter how angry he'll be.

_Forgive me for kidnapping you, Gendry. But I'm glad I get to see you soon._


	5. Unravel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was I lost in thoughts of love  
when I closed my eyes?  
He appeared and  
had I known it for a dream  
I would not have awakened.
> 
> _Ono no Komachi_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oops I had to retcon/edit something. This is what I get for posting a WIP, but it's just a line of dialogue and you may have missed it? Thanks so much for your wonderful comments and sticking with my obscure little crossover! Finally passed 1000 hits, woohoo! lol

When Gendry wakes in his own body, he has no idea his life is about to change again.

He's made his peace with whatever it is that forces him to swap bodies with Arya sometimes- in fact he's starting to feel rather grateful for it. He likes his days in Winterfell, and has to admit that he feels better now that she's regularly scrounging up extra food for his body. He's still making as many things as before, he just has the stamina to work longer at a stretch now; feels less stretched thin and irritable.

After several mishaps and arguments, they've both agreed that she's much better at wielding weapons than making them, _no matter how easy it looked at Mikken's, _and that she will stay away from projects on his workbench. She keeps busy enough polishing and sharpening, chatting with vendors and customers and topping up coal on her days here that Mott doesn't notice that he doesn't forge anything almost one day in three.

And then there's whatever this is growing between them.

It's like they're family, almost- taking care of each other's bodies; sharing their lives. Writing to her is a routine that reminds him of how his mum used to tell him about the fancy folk she served and funny stories she heard at work that day. Reading her replies is always the first thing he does, and he often re-reads them, if only to smile over her outraged opinions or a compliment she's given him.

He wonders if his replies give her the same heady rush of feelings he gets.

Daydreaming about her has become a habit while he works at the anvil, half his mind occupied on shaping the steel, half on what her moans might sound like if he was using this same controlled rhythm with her under him.

He startles reluctantly when Mott calls from the front of the shop. “Gendry! The Braavosi sword!”

He's pleased it's not Arya's day- he'd worked so hard on the sword, and he thinks he's crafted it as fine as Arya's. He wipes his hands off on a rag before he fetches the sword he's stowed in the cupboard, eager to see if the customer is just as pleased.

He stops in his tracks when he looks up to see Arya's lord father standing in the shop.

He seems just as shocked to see him, and Gendry wonders for a second if he's been aware he's been using Arya's body this whole time; if he recognizes him somehow.

He steps forward, searching Gendry's face. “...You're an apprentice here?”

Gendry swallows nervously. “Yes, milord.”

“You were born here? In King's Landing?”

_Has he come here on a trip? _ “...Yes, milord?”

“And your father?”

Gendry looks over to Master Mott, desperately hoping for a reprieve, but his Master gives him a prodding look.

“Answer, boy! This is Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North.”

_The Lord Stark that helped the King win the Rebellion is Arya's father._ “...Was always just me and my mum until she died.”

Lord Stark nods, as if it was the answer he was expecting anyway. “I'm sorry to hear that... You're what? Seventeen? Eighteen, maybe?”

“Eighteen on my last nameday, milord.”

He pauses and lowers his eyes, as if thinking back on something before he remembers the sword.

“...May I?”

Gendry is only too happy to pass it over, get out from under his scrutiny. “Course, milord.”

He unsheathes it and tests its balance, then the edge of the blade before passing it back. “...This is fine work. We'll take it, and gladly.”

Gendry bows his head. “Thank you, milord. Made it as fine as I could. But... I'm afraid this commission is for a Jon Snow.”

Lord Stark smiles warmly, understanding. “Yes, it is. He's my son. He had an idea to get something from the capital.” He studies Gendry's face again thoughtfully. “I'm very glad he did.”

Gendry swallows again. He's grateful Lord Stark has no idea what he was thinking about his daughter just a minute ago.

“Father? Can I look around a bit? I promise I won't break anything,” a little voice says, and they both look abruptly to the girl at Lord Stark's elbow.

Gendry's heart seizes in his chest.

He can't breathe. Can't think. Can barely see.

Lord Stark smiles warmly down at her. “Should be no harm in that- nothing breakable in here, after all. Stay in the shop while I get the money, though.”

“Yes, Father.”

She skips over to the helmets and immediately tries one on her head.

Gendry approaches her reluctantly._ It can't be. It can't._

“Arya? _Arya?_ You- you don't know me at all, do you?”

She tilts her head inquisitively and she looks him up and down. “You know my name? Have we been acquainted? I'm afraid I don't recall meeting you before. I've never been allowed, but I've wanted to come to the Street of Steel for ages.”

He nods, unable to answer. She's like his dream Arya, but not. Her hair is the same colour, but it's long and braided prettily instead of shoulder length, and she's wearing a fine dress.

Arya Stark is a little girl. A little lady.

Her eyes light up when they catch sight of the sword he's holding. “Did you really make that?”

Gendry struggles to answer. “...Yes. I made it for... your brother, I think.”

“For my brother? Truly? Can I see it?” She holds her hands out for it and he passes it over mechanically, like he's moving through a dream.

She pulls it out from the scabbard clumsily.

Standing watchfully behind her, the man who had ordered the sword tilts his head and corrects her. “Natural born brother. Be careful with that. It's got a real edge.”

Her eyes spark with annoyance and she awkwardly shoves the sword back in the scabbard before she raises her chin and addresses the man behind her haughtily. “Jon's still my brother, Jory!”

She turns back to Gendry, touches his arm and smiles. “It's beautiful. Thank you for making it.”

He stares at her little fingers, warm on his skin.

And the realization hits him like lightning.

The Arya he loves, who he thinks he's sharing his body with_ is just in his head._

The real Arya Stark is this bright, winsome girl with a too big helmet on her head. The real Arya Stark has a little brother named Jon. The real Arya Stark doesn't know how to handle a blade.

Her father re-enters and she runs back over to him with the sword, and Gendry retreats to the forge as they settle the bill with Mott so they can't see how he's sweating and shaking.

After they leave, he begs leave to go to the privy and goes to his room so he can try to get a hold of himself.

He stares at the writing covering the walls. Anybody coming in here would know immediately something was wrong with him.

And it might have taken him a while, but he can finally admit the truth.

He sits down on his cot and stares, unseeing.

The dreams had just seemed so _real_.

* * *

Mott gives him half a sweet tart after his ration and seats himself with him. “Fine work this week, boy.”

Mott is usually sparing with the praise and even more sparing with pudding, so Gendry stops eating and nods gratefully.

“There a tool you hankering after?”

Gendry's heart skips a beat despite his despondent mood. “...Be nice to have a punch awl.”

Mott nods with approval and claps him on the shoulder. “Done.”

He should be happy. He'll almost have a full kit; be ready to get to Journeyman status.

But he'll probably end up out on the streets, smeared with his own soil and ranting at passersby.

If this is some brain fever or demon, he doesn't want to give in to it without a fight. Surely there's some powder he can take, something he can do to rid himself of her.

But he'll see a Maester and scrub off his walls tomorrow- he's hurting inside too badly to stir from his cot tonight.

* * *

Instead, he wakes up in her, naked, and despairs over the temptation of her perfect body. How much he aches for her to be _real._

He stumbles through the motions as people direct him-in-Arya along, but he leaves the journal unread on her desk. No use fanning the flames of this fever dream. The details are tantalizingly intricate as always, like that blazing red comet in the sky and wagons creaking with foodstuffs and barrels of wine; the way the cold bites unless he keeps moving.

But the only way out of these is just to get to the end of the day, so he might as well move it along. He slings the saddlebags over her mare and mounts as he had been taught in previous dreams. Probably not like riding a horse in real life, but what would he know?

Bran and the Reeds stand to the side and watch them leave- looks like they're not coming to the wedding. He's not sure if that makes him happy or not- he doesn't want to talk to anybody right now and their friendship was part of what made him wish so fervently that this were true.

Bran's eyes widen and he hastily steps forward to catch the bridle of the horse and stop them.

“Gendry! You seem- _something's wrong_.”

Gendry shakes his head and rolls his eyes, speaking with Arya's husky voice. “Doesn't matter. This is all just a dream.”

The stricken understanding on Bran's face makes his gut twist, as do his gentle words before he lets go.

“I'm sorry you feel that way. When you change your mind, I'll be here in Winterfell, to help.”

Gendry shrugs and squeezes his legs gently, spurring the mare under him to follow the train away from Winterfell.

The day is long and cold and tedious, and he's sore from the long ride and goes to bed early, eager for release back into his own body.

He's horrified to wake up as her again anyway. It's never happened before, and it has to mean something is truly wrong with his real self.

When he finally wakes up under a wagon in the middle of nowhere, with only a few coppers left and no tools, he feels exactly like a ranting madman.

* * *

“You okay, boy? You've gotten real quiet of late.”

“...Just weary, I guess.”

“Well, I don't mind the company, and that's a fact. Start to see things in the dark when you're alone too long. Can never be too careful, and it's real sportin' of you to take watch at night.”

“...Yeah, I'm hoping it'll keep me from dreaming too.”

“You get night terrors?”

“...Something like that.”

“Well, good country air cures many an affliction. We hear city folk get sick an awful lot. Folks ain't meant to live like that- don't know how you all stand the smell. The missus says it promotes evil humors in the flesh. She never likes me goin' to the city, but there's no silver to be found in our cellar, eh?”

“...I hope you're right. Can't afford to go back anyway.”

“Didn't you say you had some lady patron up North comin' to get you?”

“...Probably better to see what work I can get if she never shows.”

* * *

At least his stubbornness seems to be beating whatever this is. He stays up nights, angry and listlessly tired, sleeping in fits and starts as the wagon rolls north during the day. He tosses the last stick of charcoal to the side of the road so she can't hound him even if she manages to steal into his body again. But he can't bring himself to throw away her last note, written over a page from a book she must have stolen, although he shoves it in his helmet and refuses to let himself re-read it as he normally would.

Her final words emblazon themselves in his mind anyway.

**Wait for me at the Crossroads. I'll ride down to you after Sansa's “Red Wedding” and explain everything, I promise. You can yell at me all you want, I just needed you to be safe.**

**Love, Arya**

He doesn't know what happens one evening, but he stares up at the farmer's thatched roof above him, eyes full of tears. It felt like something snapped in his chest, and he's in breathless agony for a moment before the feeling fades.

The dreams don't ever trouble him again; there are no more messages scrawled on walls.

He's never sure whether he cries out of regret or relief that she's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know, I know, I'm SORRY but if any part of their system was going to break under stress, it was going to be Gendry, and Arya's decision and Sansa's wedding managed to take out what little support system he had. And one thing I always wondered in KNNW is why neither of them ever tried to short-circuit the swaps.
> 
> I promise Arya isn't gone forever! I am going to try and stay on schedule, but I've started getting my own unwelcome nightly visits from cluster headaches again. They take away a lot of my “useful” hours in a day, and while I do want to get this story out of my head and into existence, I have to prioritize my job and my kids when I have good hours. The headaches always pass in a few weeks and I'm already on beta blockers, they just take time to build up enough to be effective. So apologies in advance if I keep you hanging for longer than a week between updates.


	6. Cleave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GoT fic so just be ready: people are dying in this chapter. I've tried to keep the gore minimal, but just a heads-up if you hate reading that sort of thing.

Gendry wakes with tears in his eyes and his throat aching, and he grimaces and curls onto his side.

Even five years on, she still haunts him. Maybe she always will.

He supposes his nickname of “mad smith” is apt enough, considering. He could never properly explain to anybody why he'd arrived at the Crossroads with only a few coppers to his name and none of the tools of his trade. Why he'd fought sleep until he up and fainted in the street soon after he arrived.

It had taken him a few months to get used to living here- a town at the intersection between the High Road, the River Road and the Kingsroad. He'd had to start over at their blacksmith as an apprentice, his knowledge of making fine armor and weapons only of limited use: most of the time they shoe horses and forge plows, cookware and scythes here.

But he's an old hand at smelting ore and tempering steel, and that, at least, made him useful enough to hire after farmer Pell's wagon had delivered him to town.

In retrospect, he's actually glad he left King's Landing behind, although he still wonders how things are in Flea Bottom, sometimes. Wonders how fast Mott found a new apprentice and how he must have been horrified by all that writing on his walls. Wonders if Hot Pie is still at the bakery down the end the Street of Flour and if anything ever happened with the miller girl. Misses walking by the minstrels busking on the Street of Seeds. Misses choosing from Septon Vernon's books and wolfing down the sweet bread after lessons. Misses being able to walk around and have nobody at all know him.

Misses eating Dornish curry, even.

But he makes a far better wage here, and room and board is not only free, but generous.

His room is nothing special, but he gets three square meals a day. Sure, between harvests it's always potatoes with something else and they eat a lot more salted fish than he's used to, but he's not one to complain. Apprentices and journeymen all get to eat their fill every meal, the same food as his Master gets. Now that Summer has finally ended, everyone says meals will start getting leaner, but he's not noticed any change yet.

He's dressed better too, in more homespun than linen, but he actually has more than one set of clothes now, and several pairs of socks.

And he might be a couple years late collecting a full tool kit and becoming a journeyman, but he'd learned plenty of new skills in the meantime, and he knows he can forge far more now than he could at Mott's. He doesn't sneer at requests to forge horseshoes and cooking pots as well as well-balanced swords- work is work, and they sell a lot more of the former than the latter.

His time with Mott helped him here too, in the end: everyone in town knows he's been trained for fancy work like decorative embossing and stamping better than even Master Ewan, so he gets custom orders for wedding platters, tea trays, cutlery and the like more than any other smith. Those always pay good commission, and he's been able to put aside plenty of silver now.

Most of the other young, unmarried men in town spend their extra coin at the whorehouse run by Heddle, but Gendry's more satisfied buying the occasional book and then trading with Healer Rhys for one of his. He doesn't like how drink makes him feel foggy and out of control. And he's tried, and after the third girl, he'd given up.

Even fucking someone pretty, he can't get off until he closes his eyes and pictures _her _instead.

“Arya the name of your girl back in King's Landing?” the last one had asked as they both lay sweaty and panting after.

Gendry had grimaced. “...Sorry, Tess.”

She'd shrugged. “Fuck lots of soldiers who miss their wives and need to pretend. I don't mind.”

He hadn't bothered correcting her. And when Bella, one of the most popular girls, had eyed him up at the market and offered him a fuck for free a few months later, he'd just turned her down.

Johan, a dyer selling skeins nearby, had spit on the ground in outrage.

“You really are the mad smith, eh?! Who says no to a free fuck from Bella?”

Gendry had scowled. Bella was really pretty, too: big tits; long, black, curly hair; deep blue eyes framed with thick lashes. But he hadn't even _wanted_ to.

He's tried to forget, to move on with his life. But it's like his heart just doesn't want to let her go.

Or maybe it's his head. He doesn't think of her constantly like he used to, but little reminders like somebody saying “winter is coming” will bring it all rushing back.

He's still never had dreams that were ever as vivid. He can instantly recall what her skin smelled like, what her voice sounded like; hell, even what it was like to be licked on the face by her direwolf.

Wrapping presents in cloth and aching with hope.

The memory that troubles him most is the last one of Mott's shop, though.

His dream Arya hadn't owned a mirror- he'd never clearly seen what her face looked like, except in the blurry reflection off a pond or a sliver of a glimpse off polished silverware. He'd guessed that she was pretty- she had nice teeth and skin, and gray eyes. But he'd never really _known _until he'd met little Arya Stark.

Even with his eyes open, he can picture her. How she'd smiled bright and touched his arm, and his heart had cracked apart like poorly tempered steel.

He's glad to be here, if only because he thinks leaving must have cured what madness he'd been suffering from.

But he still doesn't understand how he'd managed to dream with such insanely fine detail, and for so long, about a grown up Arya Stark and her family before they ever met.

* * *

Everybody is stopped and pointing at the sky that morning, so Gendry looks up on his way from hold to forge.

And he stops and stares like everybody else, but not for the exact same reason.

“Biggest shootin' star I ever seen,” Masha Heddle marvels, shaking her head.

“That's no shooting star; that's a comet,” Rhys says with a delighted smile, shading his eyes. “It has a blazing tail, indeed, but as you noted, it is rather larger. Also, see how it seems to remain fixed in the sky? We are fortunate indeed- many will never witness such a celestial event in their lifetime. I expect we shall see it traverse our skies slowly over the next month or perhaps longer as it journeys near our sun. Perhaps my old peers in Oldtown will reply with more information after I submit a report- I suspect it is rather close, if we can see it even in daylight.”

“But why's it red? It on fire or some such?”

He purses his lips and nods. “From past astronomical observations, it would seem that the answer would appear to be yes, something like. But the red color is rare- most comets in our records are white in color. Perhaps it has a large amount of Strontium in its core.”

“Bah! Not a real Maester, anyhow. Red Star like that can only be an omen. Dragons be comin',” Old Serah declares stoutly, and she tucks her basket of eggs back over her shoulder and continues to market, ignoring the Rhys' indignant frown.

It doesn't look like a star to Gendry- it's red and long like a new forged sword. He's sure Rhys is right- he spent years at the Citadel, studying, before his family had money troubles and he was forced to come home.

The thing that stuns him is he's seen it before, in his dreams of Winterfell.

How he could dream something he never even knew about so exactly?

* * *

A few days after the comet appears, bells toll all day for the dead King.

There's an awful lot of ravens flying after that.

* * *

Gendry's surprised when the healer comes to the smithhold one evening urgently looking for him.

“'fraid I haven't bought any new books since we last spoke, but you can borrow any of the ones I got again, if you want,” he offers, rather confused. Usually Rhys comes to the forge to chat about books while he's working.

He looks anxiously at the others in the common room and nods hurriedly. “That sounds good. If you could lead the way?”

Gendry nods and does as bid.

Once they're there though, Rhys grips his wrist, obviously upset, though he speaks low.

“Gendry, you must listen. You need to leave town, _and quickly_. King Joffrey has put out a list of twenty treasonous names for bounty. This list has been sent out to all Seven Kingdoms- and I'm afraid that _your_ unusual name is one of those listed.”

He thrusts the poster at Gendry, who frowns as he scans it.

“Bella? Why in hells would the King pay twenty dragons for her head? What treason could she have done? She's just a whore.”

“That's the list for the rest of the Seven Kingdoms- look under King's Landing.”

Gendry does, and blinks, stunned. He's at the top of a list of mostly children- the youngest one is only _five_. How could any of _them_ have done anything treasonous?

Rhys paces. “Now, sellswords are not often literate nor apt to look for more than the easiest prize, so you may have some grace. But you won't be safe until you can get somewhere where they don't know your name, even if they can recognize your accent.”

“But I've not _done_ anything! Never even _met_ King Joffrey!” he protests. “ Least, I don't think I have,” he amends, raking a hand through his hair in consternation. Gods, if Arya had somehow offended the prince while-

Rhys shakes his head, agitated. “Gendry, I suspect it's your very _existence_ that threatens our new king. There were accusations leveled by Prince Stannis before he was imprisoned: that our new king is in fact not his father's trueborn son-”

“...Well _that's_ treason! How is _just existing_ treason?”

“Indeed. But let us try to use _reason_ to understand how these incidents, happening in quick succession, could be related. What is it that you, a smith from King's Landing, and Bella, a whore in the Riverlands, have in common? _Think_.”

Gendry pants, at a loss. “Nothing! I only met her after I got here, and we've spoken just the once.”

Rhys sighs.

“_You both have black hair and dark blue eyes,_ like our late king, who had a certain... reputation for his... appetites on his travels. Now, Great Houses have distinctive features that often breed true- the silver hair and purple eyes of Targaryens, for example. We never questioned the blond hair and green eyes of King Joffrey and his siblings, because their mother, after all, is a Lannister. But what, do you think, is one of the hallmarks of a descendant of the House Baratheon?”

Gendry swallows as understanding starts to creep in. “You're not- you're not saying I'm one of King Robert's-”

He suddenly remembers Lord Stark looking at him with stunned recognition. And then Arya-

Gendry takes an unsteady step before he sits abruptly on his bed. “...She spent all my money to get me out of King's Landing. Said she needed to keep me safe,” he says, dazed.

Rhys exhales with surprise. “Well, this woman might have saved your life, then- your head would probably already be on a spike at the Red Keep if you were still living there. But there are still too many _here_ who know your name, and where you're from. I wouldn't put it past some of those saltpan hands to see if the Gendry they know with the Fleabottom accent can get them some easy gold.”

Gendry huffs resignedly and closes his eyes.

_Not again._

* * *

Rhys doesn't put up the poster the way he's supposed to, which gives Gendry time to prepare. He quietly buys new clothing and boots at the market and packs up his things. Gives his books into Rhys's keeping and money so he can buy him a good horse, since that'll be less suspicious. Begs a morning off from the forge so he can practice mounting and riding again.

It's heartening to realize he does actually remember the things Meera taught him.

Second time he'll be picking up and leaving in five years.

But with that comet blazing in the sky like a signal, he's starting to believe that maybe it was for the same reason.

That everything that happened between him and Arya was real, and she's somewhere up north, riding south to Sansa's wedding under this comet like he remembers doing.

_I'm sorry you feel that way. When you change your mind, I'll be here in Winterfell, to help._

Strange for Bran to say what he did. Like he knew what was going to happen.

He'd rather try to find Arya first, but he's not going to be welcome at a highborn wedding or at some strange lord's castle, whereas Bran's always helped him out in Winterfell. At the very least, he can hide better there where nobody knows him if they were truly just mad dreams.

He wraps up his tools in his apron reluctantly while the other smiths are at dinner. He's made friends here; he's part of the community; has a good living. Rhys had told Bella too, and tried to urge her to leave town, but she'd refused to believe “some failed Maester” claiming she was on a bounty list for treason. Gendry can't blame her, especially since she can't read the list herself.

He hates that he's got to leave without giving proper notice- Master Ewan's been good to him, and so has his family and the other smiths. But he can send Rhys a letter once he's safe, and he'll help pass on his goodbyes. Right now he just has to get out of town without anybody asking questions or keeping track of where he's headed.

He takes one last look around the forge before he sighs and walks out the door.

At least this time he's in control of how it's going to happen.

“Now remember, always lead the horse to water before you picket it. And to tie it with a manger knot so it'll remain secure. Buy extra grain once the grazing gets poorer- it'll be snowing up north. And it'll be safer to travel in a group, so try to join a caravan of some kind- always peddlers or merchants who might look kindly on an extra man headed in the same direction-- but be sure to tell them your name is Clovis. I've put some bread and sausage and an apple in the bag there, but I hope you know how to use that trail bow and tent- there are fewer inns as you get further up the Kingsroad.”

“S'all right. I've been taught how to use one. Just been awhile. Thanks.”

Rhys nods, satisfied with the way he's sheared Gendry's hair, and then he passes him the razor. He's shaving his face with the help of the Rhys' brass mirror when they hear screams and angry shouts and then wailing coming from the market side of town.

Their eyes meet with trepidation in the mirror, and Rhys hurriedly hands him a rag to towel off with, sweating.

“I fear we may have tarried too long. Quickly, now!”

Gendry changes into his new travelling clothes- wool and fur pieces that should help him stay warm and keep out the wet. He won't be able to go far before the sun sets, but hopefully with the new clothing and shorn hair, any townsfolk he rides past will think him a stranger.

He's about to grab his new cloak when there's a pounding at the door.

Rhys gestures for him to be silent and stay behind the door, but Gendry goes to his bundle of tools and picks up his hammer before doing as bid.

Rhys takes a calming breath and then opens the door halfway, smiling placidly.

“...Yes? I'm the Healer here at the Crossroads- can I help you with something?”

“Funny thing, this. See, I was only expectin' to collect one bounty, maybe two. We all knew Mya up the Eyrie, and I know all the girls at the whorehouse here. But that pimply fuckwit that runs it is protestin' that I killed one of his best girls, and can't read the poster that says the King says I have the right! And he tells me, get this, that besides the Healer,_ there's a smith named Gendry _from out of town who can also read it to him. A bloody blacksmith who can read! And his master says he was headed here just earlier. So I was wonderin' if you seen him.”

Gendry can see Rhys' back go rigid, his fingers gripping the door tight. “I'm afraid-”

The sellsword scoffs and elbows him in his face, kicking the door open.

The man's already said he killed Bella, so Gendry doesn't hesitate- he just swings his hammer before the man can hack at them with his sword.

He's never killed anybody before.

But the sellsword's scarred face gives in under the hammer like an egg- doesn't feel anything like steel. And then he's falling backward out the door, head crumpled into a bloody mass, and his body lands on the ground in front of Rhys' house with a thud.

Gendry feels strangely energized and sick all at the same time as he stares at what he's just done. He's still breathing hard.

Rhys is sprawled on the floor and has blood running down his face, so Gendry turns to him first. “...You all right?” he pants.

He waves him off after gingerly feeling his nose. “...A little broken at worst! Is he really-?”

So Gendry goes out to check, and realizes he'd dropped a bloodstained sack by the door.

He opens it reluctantly and peers in. And he reels back, dropping the sack after he glimpses two bloodstained heads with black hair and staring blue eyes.

He puts his hands on his knees and shuts his eyes. “Oh gods. I think you were right.”

Rhys shakes his head gingerly, grimacing. “...I truly wish I wasn't.”

Gendry can't bear to look at the sack again. He knows he's got to go, but...

“Rhys ...I know those heads are worth real gold, but I'm guessing they were my sisters, somehow.”

“I'll see them buried properly, and dispose of that wretch, as well. I'm sure Mycah will help- he had a preference for Bella. Such an awful, awful business. Go now, quickly, before questions are raised about how a healer took down a murdering sellsword.”

Gendry gives the bloody body a last horrified look before he staggers back inside, washing the blood off his hammer with shaky hands before wrapping it back up with his tools. He doesn't even recognize himself in the mirror.

But that's a good thing, and he's determined not to die if he can help it. Rhys follows him out to the horse.

He smiles sadly. “I never thought I would become friends with a blacksmith. But I am glad you were here when I came home. Be safe, Gendry.”

Gendry clasps his forearm firmly. “You've been a true friend. Thank you. For everything. I'm sorry to-”

Rhys shrugs and scoffs. “Ach. I get your whole library this way. _Go_.”

Gendry has to laugh at that, but he sobers once he starts riding north.

It'll be a thousand miles before he'll see another familiar face.

He hopes.

* * *

He's sore at first- Arya's body was far more used to riding than his is.

But he hasn't been followed, so he paces himself accordingly. All the talk at the inns he stops at is about armies marching down south, with the Stormlands and the Reach allying against the Westerlands and Crownlands, but it sounds as if the Riverlands, Eyrie and the North have not taken sides yet.

He's glad. That means the Kingsroad here still has regular patrols from local lords, and he feels safe enough even on his own for stretches, though he's rarely alone long- as a smith, his skill at re-shoeing horses comes in handy enough that he's welcome with any group travelling the Kingsroad.

The days are mostly long and tedious though, so he's been actively dredging up memories as he makes steady progress north. Remembering whole passages from their letters; how they'd bickered over that damn curry and Marna and sewing. Meera patiently teaching him to shoot Arya's bow, Lady Stark smoothing his hair, even Rickon bursting in in the mornings.

For all his horror over how he'd lost his mind five years ago, he still hadn't been able to throw away Arya's last note.

He's only had one other person tell him they love him, and that was his mum.

And maybe it was just her signing off, but the more he thinks about how warmly they'd been writing each other; how carefully they'd taken care of each other, the more he aches to meet her –-grown up now-- at long last.

Five years ago, he assumed it would be impossible for him to ever get from King's Landing to Winterfell.

He's glad he was wrong.

* * *

The comet continues to blaze overhead, lighting up the night sky and fainter in the day, but still red and bright.

It's huge now- Rhys said the Maesters in Oldtown had calculated that it would reach its closest pass while he was riding, and that it would be useful to see by at night.

They're on the lonely stretch after Moat Cailin and Gendry's setting up his tent when the evening light goes funny, and he looks up. Everybody making camp starts pointing and exclaiming.

There's pieces breaking off the comet, wheeling free and burning with their own tails. It's beautiful, and everybody watches, spellbound for minutes. The pieces spread and scatter like shooting stars. Some fizzle in midair.

One big piece spirals north, streaking off with its own streaming tail. Two more plummet like smoking stones, southwest.

They must hit somewhere spectacularly, but it's out of sight over either horizon. The comet looks pretty much the same too, still burning steadily overhead as if it doesn't even miss the pieces it just shed, although its tail looks longer than it did.

It's not until Gendry's almost asleep that he remembers how the dreams suddenly stopped.

He bursts out of his tent and desperately looks south. He can't see anything beyond the dark hills, the stars in the sky and the baleful glare of the comet. Everything is quiet and peaceful.

But there's a dreadful certainty in his gut. His chest aches with the memory of something snapping.

It can't be. Not after he's come this far to finally meet her.

He refuses to believe it.

* * *

Tear spring into his eyes unbidden when he finally spots Winterfell.

It's exactly as he remembered; just covered with more snow.

His heart starts beating anxiously as he rides towards the gate- what is he going to say if Bran _isn't_ there? What if he's come a thousand miles to just hide in some freezing northern forge among strangers?

“Dismount and state your business,” one guard calls out as he nears the gate.

Gendry exhales nervously as he complies, dismounting and leading his horse with well-practiced ease now. “I'm here to see Bra-”

That's as far as he gets before he's tackled by a direwolf.

And he has to laugh, even though his eyes are wet. “Nymeria! Down! _Down! Nymeria, I'm serious!_ I missed you too, girl. I missed you too,” he chokes, trying to keep her eager tongue out of his mouth. She barks insistently and puts her paws on his chest, making an aggrieved sound until he scratches behind her ears. He's never been so glad to be pinned down by a giant wolf in his life.

“I know, I know, I'dve come sooner if I'd known, girl. I should've.”

“Gendry! You're here!”

He looks up to see Jojen and Meera rushing eagerly across the courtyard, with Bran limping behind, and Gendry struggles to his feet, not caring that the guards are gawping at the scene; that there are tears running down his cheeks.

“Jojen? Meera? _Bran?_ It's really you?”

Jojen laughs and grips his forearm warmly before pulling him into a hug. “Of course it is! Oh, what a journey you've had!”

Meera laughs and hugs him next. “But you're so tall! And handsome!”

Bran beams when he gets to him, wrapping Gendry in a hug as well. “Welcome to Winterfell! Oh, it's wonderful to see you like this at last! Hodor, come see to our guest's horse? Come, you must have ridden weeks to get here- we can sit and have a meal and you can tell us all about it.”

He pauses then, tilting his head and squinting. Jojen too, is tilting his head like he's puzzled.

“Something's different. Your hair?” Jojen's eyes widen as they meet Gendry's and he sobers. “You're older than you were, somehow. What...?”

Bran stops in his tracks, stunned. “Their bond's been severed.”

His eyes meet Gendry's with horrified realization. “...Arya's dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, don't panic, there's a plan, I promise! And I'm sorry I had to kill Mya and Bella- they were the two known Robert's bastards in the area-- but not sorry at all about the other. (Props if you can recognize him.)
> 
> Comets can actually split if they get too close to planets- the most recent example of this is Comet Shoemaker-Levy 9 splitting when it got captured by Jupiter in 1992. (Sorry I'm such a nerd- I love space stuff. Like has anybody else thought about the WILDLY eccentric orbits that their planet must have to have years-long summers and winters?)


	7. Splice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
_We'll beat destiny at its own game_   
_and make it follow our own rules_   
_There isn't any weapon besides you_   
_that I need to use_   

> 
>   
Zenzenzense, RADWIMPS  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is late BUT in my defense it is almost double the length of the other ones!

“No. _No._ _It can't be!_” 

Brans speaks flat and monotone, resigned. “How else could it have broken?”

Gendry shakes his head insistently. “It broke five years ago and she's been alive this whole time, right? I think it was _my fault_. I was..._fighting_ her. I didn't want to let her do something else crazy in my body, and I thought I was losing my mind... So I stayed up nights instead of sleeping. One evening it just...it hurt like my heart was ripping apart. I felt something..._ snap_. ...And then we never switched again.”

Bran frowns, but his eyes are hopeful. “You were upset when you left- we knew something had gone horribly wrong.” His lips quirk. “Arya did something drastic in your body?”

He meets his eye again, startled. “Five _years _ago?”

Meera looks anxiously between them and then exchanges a look with Jojen.

“Perhaps we should go someplace more private to discuss this?” Jojen says pointedly, tilting his head towards the hall.

Both Bran and Gendry exhale shakily and nod.

“Hodor,” Hodor says, smiling as he approaches leading Gendry's horse.

Bran seems to remember himself, taking a calming breath and smiling. “Thank you, Hodor. Please take care of his horse and then bring his things up to Ar-”

He stops and hesitates, and Jojen wheezes with laughter. “...You are so going to catch it when your mother finds out.”

Bran's brow furrows. “They were never in her room at the same time,” he argues.

Jojen and Meera share an amused look before looking back at him with fond exasperation.

Bran exhales impatiently. “Nevermind that now- I'm sorry, Gendry, but I've had to call the banners, so I'm afraid I'll have to put you in a chamber on the ground floor. One with a fireplace, please, Hodor- our guest is from the south,” he amends.

“Hodor.”

Gendry rubs the back of his head, flustered. They've been using his real name in front of everybody. “I'm just a bastard blacksmith- you can put me wherever you like. I actually have to tell you something important about that... But what does, 'call the banners' mean?”

Meera is solemn. “It means House Stark has called for the armed support of its bannermen. I'm glad we were here when you arrived- Jojen and I are riding home tomorrow. But we will come north again with House Reed's forces in a few weeks,” she says with conviction, and Jojen nods.

Gendry nods slowly. “The North takin' sides in that war down South? It was all the talk along the Kingsroad.”

Bran looks bleak. “No, it's much worse than that. The Wall has been breached. And winter is almost upon us.”

“_...What?!”_

Bran sighs before attempting a reassuring smile. “Come. Jojen's right. You're here at my my invitation, and you've had a long journey. Bread and salt first, and then we can talk.”

* * *

Gendry hesitates over the food Old Nan brings: pottage and ale with with a half loaf of bread and salt. “I can't accept this without telling you first,” he says reluctantly. “...King Joffrey's said I've done treason.”

All three of them blink at him in shock.

Gendry closes his eyes and sighs. “I promise I haven't! I've not met him, even! But there's a bounty poster going 'round the Seven Kingdoms with my name on it- it's why I had to leave, cut my hair so nobody from town would know me. My friend Rhys, he figures --and I know this sounds crazy-- that I'm one of King Robert's bastard sons. And he says Prince Stannis accused King Joffrey of not being a trueborn son-”

Jojen and Bran both smile at each other with delighted comprehension. “Stag's horns,” Jojen breathes.

“Of course,” Bran sighs, shaking his head.

Gendry gives them a puzzled look, and Bran waves a hand. “Forgive us- we've puzzled over it for as long as we've known you. Go on.”

Gendry tries to explain further. “...There was a sellsword who came to the Crossroads. The others he killed off the list also had black hair and eyes like mine. Rhys said the King had the same and _that_ was why we were on that list- wasn't anything any of us did. The youngest was just five years old.”

Bran nods, mouth set in a grim line. “King Joffrey wishes to suppress any proof that might threaten his power with the slaughter of innocents. How very like a Lannister.” He meets Gendry's eye and reaches across the table to grip his hands.

“As you are my guest, and Winterfell is currently mine, none here may harm you. You have my word as a Stark,” he declares fiercely. His expression softens then, and he smiles and looks like Bran again. “Now _eat. Please._”

With an exhalation of relief, Gendry complies.

Meera shakes her head fearfully. “...Forgive me, Gendry. I take your part in this, _of course_. ...But Bran, your father has always been dutiful and he's sworn to the Crown. What if he decides differently once he returns?”

Jojen frowns at his sister. “Some ties supercede others,” he argues.

Bran looks down, considering again before he speaks quietly. “...Father was sworn to King Robert; House Stark has not sworn allegiance to King Joffrey as yet. And Father chose to go ahead with Sansa's wedding and planned to go the Tullys after instead of down to King's Landing. Hardly the actions of a Lord Paramount eager to swear allegiance to a new king. Besides, I can't believe Father would choose duty over what is right. He brought Jon home, despite the shame. And he's rebelled against a king's demands before.” Bran smiles slyly. “I imagine Arya will have plenty to say if Father even dares consider it.”

Gendry swallows thickly. “...You truly have a bastard brother called Jon? Jon Snow?”

Bran blinks with confusion. “Yes, but he's not been home for a few years. Melisandre took him to Essos with her while Arya was in Braavos. He's of an age with Robb.”

“...I forged a water dancer's sword for Jon Snow. The man who ordered it said it was meant for a young lad. But then your father came to get it instead-”

Bran inhales, paling. “_You_ forged- ?”

His eyes meet Gendry's with sudden, horrified understanding. “You met Arya five years ago in King's Landing. ...But she was only thirteen then.”

Gendry huffs a humorless laugh at the memory, although his eyes sting. “...The last time I was here I was short with you. Didn't even bother reading her letter. …Because I knew in truth she was just a girl. And she didn't even know me,” he finishes miserably.

They're all stunned into silence. Tears well up in Meera's eyes and she claps her hand over her mouth as Gendry continues.

“...I thought I'd gone mad and dreamed her grown up- dreamed all of this somehow- the castle, all of you. Nymeria.”

Nymeria sits up at the sound of her name and shoves her head into his lap. She closes her eyes with satisfaction when Gendry obligingly gives her a good scratch.

It's funny how it comforts him too, feeling her warm fur under his fingers.

“...'til I saw the comet. And realized I'd seen it before. Realized why Arya did what she did, when I saw that poster. She stranded me at the Crossroads with no tools, and she spent all my money to get me there. The townsfolk still call me the mad smith. Well, also 'cause I collapsed in the street soon after I arrived. I probably wore myself out trying to fight off the switching.”

“Oh, Gendry! Oh, how awful for you,” Meera gasps, coming around the table to hug him. “I'm so sorry.” She rounds on Jojen, aghast. “How could you not tell him?”

Jojen looks at her haplessly. “...We didn't know! They seemed of an age.”

“...I think their bodies _were_ of an age. We all just assumed that it was merely distance between them and not years as well,” Bran says quietly. “I'm sorry, Gendry. We would have if we'd realized. One would think this gift would spare those we care about some anguish.”

Gendry shrugs uncomfortably. “...I don't blame you. And I'm here now.”

Bran smiles wanly at that. “You are. And I'm sure Arya and everybody else will be back in a couple of weeks- I sent a raven as soon as we heard about The Wall, and I expect them to come straight home. That should take precedence over southern politics- even a war of succession.”

“Was it wildlings? They broke through?”

Bran shakes his head. “Perhaps you have to see The Wall to understand how truly massive and impenetrable it was designed to be. A wall of solid ice, seven hundred feet tall and three hundred feet wide, stretching from one side of Westeros to the other- whole castles fit_ inside _it. But a piece of the Red Comet struck it about a week ago, between the Shadow Tower and Castle Black. They felt it even at Eastwatch By the Sea- they reported that the whole Wall shook and screamed. And a section of it has fallen now. I've sent what reinforcements we can spare, and the Night's Watch will do what they can, but...”

Gendry can see the dread on all their faces. “It's not just wildlings on the other side of that, is it? The stories are real? About The Others?”

Jojen's eyes are bleak. “It never made sense to us, why we saw the final battle with the dead _here_, when The Wall was impregnable and had been for eight thousand years. But now we understand. Fate steps quickly now.”

Bran hesitates before he speaks urgently. “You also have a role to play in all this, Gendry. In the vision, you sit before our Heart Tree and you're mending Arya's ceremonial robe with needle and crimson thread.”

Gendry frowns, at a loss. How is sewing some fancy robe supposed to help in some great war _with the dead_? “Didn't Sansa fix that already? And wouldn't grey thread be less obvious?”

“Visions are often symbolic- the stag's horns we saw never meant actual horns would grow from your head,” Jojen says distractedly, thinking. “And there's no such thing as coincidence. Did you leave Arya's Needle in her room?”

Gendry shakes his head. “Arya doesn't sew. That was me, and I always used Sansa's spares.”

They all smile with amusement before Bran speaks. “No, Arya named her _sword_ Needle. Jon had it commissioned _for_ her, as a gift.”

It takes a moment. And then Gendry's mouth falls open.

“...But I forged that _based on the one she had_. _How-_?”

Bran lifts a shoulder, unperturbed. “The same way I knew you would come to Winterfell before Winter was upon us. Time isn't always a straight line- sometimes it twists and knots back on itself. We Greenseers can glimpse how the future can alter the past or how things long forgotten can change lives now. ...I just wish we were better at understanding what we do see.”

“Gendry, if you don't remember, we can just check her room. It's only been a few weeks for us, but... it's actually been years for you, hasn't it?” Meera says gently.

His heart leaps and he looks over at Bran. “I'd like to do that, if that's all right.”

* * *

He's breathing too hard and he knows it, but he can't seem to stop the flood of emotion- everything is just as he left it, but her room feels strangely smaller now that he's in his own body instead of hers.

Arya's Needle is hanging on the back of her door in its usual spot, battered from wear and weather: the scabbard has scratches and saltwater stains; the leather on the pommel long darkened due to the grip of her hands and the guard dented and dim with tarnish.

Gendry picks it up with a sense of awe- it's so strange to realize that the shining sword he'd so carefully forged was hers all this time. To know that Arya traded for the leather herself, and probably carted the ore and coal it was forged with in his body, all unknowing.

It makes him dizzy just thinking about it, and he hands it over to Jojen mutely before walking over to her desk.

Her journal is still open where he'd ignored it years –or is it weeks?-- ago. And he pulls out a piece of yellowed and oft folded parchment from his pouch and carefully opens it next to the journal, huffing a laugh of relief as tears well up in his eyes.

Same smudged, slanted writing, though the letters in faded charcoal are bigger.

_She was real. Being in each others' bodies was real._

“...Do you mind if I have a minute to read this?”

Bran's smile is gentle. “Take all the time here you want. I still need to go play Lord Stark until Father returns, so I'll be down in the Great Hall.”

Meera nods, eyes bright with understanding. “We have to make ready for our trip home as well, right, Jojen? You remember where our rooms are if you need anything?”

Gendry pauses and thinks. It's been five years, but- “...East Wing- down the hall that way and then down the flight of stairs. Two and three doors down, on the left.”

Jojen smiles and grips his shoulder, and then they shut the door behind themselves quietly.

He sits in Arya's chair gingerly and starts to read.

_Dear Gendry,_

_I'm terribly, horribly sorry. I feel awful repaying your beautiful arrowheads with this. I know you're going to be angry with me and I won't be able to explain properly in King's Landing so let me try here. Please understand that I'm doing this because I care for you and want to keep you safe._

_I know it sounds crazy, but my father thinks you're the bastard son of King Robert Baratheon. They grew up together; he says you're his spitting image from when he was young. Joffrey is now king, but he's not actually the rightful king: Prince Stannis says Queen Cersei and her brother Jaime have been practicing incest. I think Shireen must have caught them at it- we found so many secret passages in the Red Keep when I was there. The problem is, the Lannisters are ruthless. They've slaughtered whole houses before, women and children included, and they will kill all of King Robert's bastards to cover the truth of why all three of her children have golden hair and green eyes instead of Baratheon black hair and blue eyes like you. So I'm going to get you out of King's Landing before they can find you. _

_I promise I won't leave you by yourself in some country town- I'm going to ride down to get you after the wedding. The Freys are only about a weeks ride from the Crossroads, and I can buy you a horse and saddle if you want to come home with me to Winterfell, or whatever you prefer. We can talk about it when we meet- it will be so much easier to actually talk in person instead of through letters like this, don't you think? With so much distance between us, I thought it would be almost impossible to meet, but I truly think we have a good chance this way. And in truth, I've been wanting to meet you in person more and more._

_Remember what I told you about Bran and Jojen being born on the same day? Do you think maybe that's true for us too? We're of an age, aren't we? I know I feel so close to you, though we've never really met. I admit I was slightly annoyed by these switches at first, but now I'm glad I've lived in your skin and seen through your eyes. I think you're amazing and I'm so grateful to know you. And I know that if you die, I'd never feel right again. So please forgive me for what I'm about to do. _

_Love,_

_Arya_

His cheeks are wet once he's done, but he leafs back through the pages anyway, smiling at his own writing; how his letters alternate regularly with hers instead of haphazardly filling in empty spaces on the walls like they'd done in King's landing.

Reading them over brings everything back with a rush: how they'd gone from baffled strangers to awkward cooperation to friends to... longing for more.

He hopes Bran is right, that it'll only take Arya a couple more weeks to get home.

* * *

He decides to ask Bran if there's room for him at the Winterfell forge, so he heads down after re-reading twice and then tucking her journal into his pouch.

Bran is poring over a map with little wooden figures on it and writing something when Maester Luwin comes in hurriedly and speaks before Gendry can.

“Apologies for the urgent interruption, but... the raven we sent to the Freys has returned.”

“...Not one of theirs?”

“This is our original message, about the breach in The Wall. It's... as though this raven simply returned without finding their rookery, which is very odd indeed- it's always been a reliable carrier. Of course, Lord Stark must be informed post-haste- would you like me to try a different bird?”

Bran shakes his head. “By the time it gets there, they may have gone on to the Tully's. And surely Castle Black sent out ravens to the whole realm about the breach. Father should have-”

He stills. “...Maester Luwin, reports were that multiple pieces fell from the comet last week, is that correct?”

“Yes- similar to shooting stars, in most cases- they simply burnt themselves to ash while falling. There were reports that two larger pieces fell somewhere in the Riverlands.” Maester Luwin looks up in alarm, seeming to understand Bran's line of thinking.”...Brandon, it is most likely that they simply struck a field or-”

Bran holds up a hand to stop him and looks anxiously at Gendry. “Gendry, how long after you left Winterfell would you say it was until your bond snapped?”

Gendry thinks back, increasingly uneasy. “...Took us about a week to get to the Crossroads, and then maybe a week and a half after that? I wasn't sleeping properly then, though-”

Bran stands abruptly, face pale. “Get Jojen for me. Tell him I need him in the Godswood.”

Gendry's never seen Bran look so terrible. “Yes, milord, right away.”

Jojen blanches and immediately drops the things he's packing when Gendry delivers the message. He swallows and thinks for a moment, grabbing his cloak and the furs off his bed. Then he looks at Gendry, eyes dark with worry.

“If you could bring Arya's sword? It might be needed later, though I don't know why yet. And hot food from the kitchens?”

His lips curve with self-deprecating humor. “Apparently I'm a greenseer that didn't know I'd be spending hours outside today.”

“'Course. You want me to get Meera too?”

Jojen looks at the wall separating their rooms. “No. House Reed must answer the call, regardless of what Bran finds. It shouldn't be more than a few hours.”

Gendry doesn't know what to expect when he gets to the Godswood after finally convincing Old Nan to let him have a tray of stew, bread and tea for Jojen, but it's unnerving as all hells to see Bran's empty white eyes and his fur wrapped body slumped against the Heart Tree, his hand holding one of its roots. Jojen, seated beside him holding his other hand, looks up when he sees Gendry approaching.

“Thank you,” he breathes, and he drinks deep of the tea so his teeth can stop chattering before eating ravenously.

“He's warging? Is he bringing a message to Lord Stark himself?”

Jojen looks over at Bran. “No. He shouldn't be warging without a known host. But the Heart Tree might help him find one. And if he gets lost, I've always been able to call him back.”

He hesitates and looks up at Gendry. “Did Arya ever tell you why she went to Braavos?”

Gendry can't help feeling uneasy again. “...Just that she was training for something. There's lots of notes in her journal about what she learned.”

Jojen nods. “Lord Stark didn't want to send her away. Didn't want her to be anything but a little lady like her mother and sister. But when three different seers –including your own son-- foresee that she must be trained to kill the first and greatest of the Others, you listen. ”

Gendry sucks in a breath. “Arya is going to...”

“Defeat the Night King. Yes. She's been training for it for years. And you've been in her body- you know how fit she is, how combat ready.”

Jojen hesitates. “...But there was another part of the prophecy. We all assumed it would happen in battle, just before-- Red Witches can bring back the dead, after all, and Melisandre will be here as well. But I think that assumption was wrong. And I think Bran thinks so too, now. Because what we saw wasn't her body pierced by blades or ice or arrows. She simply ceases to exist, in a flash of light and pain.”

Gendry stares at Jojen, shaking. “_You_ helped make this prophecy.”

His eyes are bleak. “I think we didn't see clearly enough, then.”

Bran suddenly takes a breath and his eyes return to normal. And then his face contorts.

“_No! No, no, no..._”

Jojen wraps his arms around Bran as he cries, disconsolate as a child.

“...No... stone bridge or... Frey castles... on the... Green Fork. Just... joined crater lakes... where... it _was_. The Freys... are gone. _My family... is gone_,” he gasps between sobs.

He clings to Jojen. “Why didn't... we..._ see _this?! I'm not... supposed to be... lord of... anything!”

Gendry sits down in the snow, his face numb, barely able to breathe himself.

Arya's really dead. All the Starks are.

* * *

He doesn't know how long he sits there in the snow, tears running down his own cheeks as Bran and Jojen cry quietly together, feeling stupid and helpless.

He wonders if anything might have changed if he'd ridden to that Frey castle. If he might have at least seen her.

He hates how pointless it all was- finally figuring out that Arya and Winterfell had been real all along, finally getting all the way here, and still never being able to see her again.

She'd saved his useless bastard life and he'd shut her out instead of thanking her.

And now some army of dead things is going to come through The Wall and kill them all because she's dead.

Well, Bran said he could sit and mend her robe first. As if that would help anything. If only he could swap bodies with Arya again, he'd ride her away from that damned wedding instead of towards it. If only the future could really change-

Gendry picks up Needle, perplexed. But it _has_, before.

“...Bran? Jojen?” It's probably stupid, but he's got to try something, anything. “...Is there a way I can mend our bond somehow? Swap our bodies again?”

Bran looks dazed, his eyes and nose red from crying, and he gives him a bewildered look before shrugging. “...I wish I knew. I don't even know how it was made in the first place.”

“You said the future could change the past. And I've got proof of that right here.”

He holds out Needle, and Bran looks at it hopelessly before he frowns, distracted. He picks up the sword, but puts it aside, studying Gendry's right palm in astonishment. “You've been _marked._”

Bran swipes at his cheeks impatiently. “...Same as Sansa and Arya. ...But on your _right_ hand.”

Gendry blinks. “This old burn?”

Bran exhales, likes he's thinking hard. “A perfect circle, made with fire and iron. They had to tie them down, and dose them with milk of the poppy so that it wouldn't hurt so badly. Mother wouldn't speak to Father for weeks after each time. ”

Gendry shakes his head. “I don't remember how it happened, just that it hurt. Was when I was little. My mum said I must've tripped next to the hearth, and the grate holes were round. She paid a Maester for balms so I wouldn't lose use of my hand.”

Jojen and Bran look at each other and then Jojen speaks. “There are no coincidences: only things that are _meant_. And the body switches started around the time Arya did the ceremony- do you remember how her hand was cut?”

“Through the middle of the circle.”

Jojen's eyes blaze. “_Yes. _The First Men, The Children of the Forest --and the Others-- all use this symbol. For us it represents balance: life and death, fire and ice, summer and winter- two halves to make a whole. The blood from that cut is offered to the Heart Tree while the maiden prays...” His face grows thoughtful. “I wonder... if Arya might have prayed for you that night as well.”

_Blood is red. And this Needle can cut my hand open easy. But-_

Gendry looks at them in alarm. “Do I need to dance again?”

Bran huffs a laugh, his red rimmed eyes now bright with hope. “I don't think so, though we can get Meera and play the music for you, if you prefer. The dance is done to bind us Starks to the gods and to the land. All you need is to bind one Stark in particular.”

Gendry stands. “Well, let's get Meera. I don't want to screw this up if I can help it, but I was shit at that dance.” He stops, unsure. “My body's not the same age as hers anymore either.”

“Nor are you a Stark maiden. But you've been marked for a reason, and this all seems to fit the vision. So try to use her Needle to mend your bond in crimson.”

* * *

Gendry's fainted exactly once in his life, and he doesn't actually remember it, just waking up after with an aching head- apparently he'd hit it hard upon falling. He's never fainted at the sight of blood, and he doesn't think he's bleeding out too much although it hurts like anything.

But after he tips his blood into the mouth of the tree, silently begging the old gods to let him have one last chance to switch bodies with Arya, to save her and save the Starks, he suddenly feels woozy.

It feels almost like slipping into a dream, with Bran and the Reeds playing that eerie music, and the Godswood suddenly going to fog and mist as images dance through his mind quicksilver...

_Arya, younger, sullenly picking out stitches next to Sansa. Then shooting arrows from the battlements, smiling when she gets the dummy through the head despite the crosswind. Young again, eyes wide and holding her hands out to receive the Valyrian steel dagger. Racing through the fields with Nymeria bounding joyfully beside her. Upside down balanced on one hand on a dock, body strong and perfectly poised in the air above. Much younger, cuddled against her father as he reads to her from a book. Battling some strange girl with a staff. Naked in bed, moaning his name as her hand works between her thighs. Just a girl, holding Needle in an odd stance as a man with curly black hair instructs her. Crouched behind the stables with an older boy with curly black hair, laughing over a lapful of stolen lemoncakes. Wearing the dress Sansa had measured him in, looking up at the evening sky as something comes hurtling down too quickly._

_There's screams, blinding light, an instant of agony, and then nothing. _

_And then-_

_Arya struggling out of bed looking utterly confused. Looking around her room like she's never seen it before. Then looking down and clapping her hands to her breasts, mouth dropping open. _

Gendry opens his eyes with a gasp.

He's in Arya's body in a bed next to Sansa, and Rickon is snoring softly on a pallet in front of a fireplace.

She's alive. _They're all alive._

He wraps trembling arms around Arya's body, muffling his tears of relief in the pillow. He can still save them.

He pads out of bed to the door and carefully opens it, looking out. It's not an inn- they must be at some holder's keep on the way to the Frey's. And her lady mother is brushing her hair in the room across from theirs, and Gendry smiles at the sight of her, trying to blink back the tears that well up. “Good morning, mother.”

She smiles back, eyes worried. “You can tell me what's been making you so sad, Arya. You know that, don't you?”

“No, I'm happy to see you this morning, is all.” He goes over and gives her a hug, heart aching with gladness.

That earns him a bemused look and a gentle hug back before her mother presses a kiss to his forehead. “We'll break our fast with Holder Len outside, I believe. His wife is already cooking for us, so wake Rickon and Sansa for me before you do your training?”

“Yes, mother.”

He's glad to shake Sansa and see her wrinkle her beautiful nose and moan for just another minute's rest. And he chuckles when Rickon snarls, and then pulls the blankets over his head and turns his back.

Gods, he's missed her family.

During breakfast, the holder mentions that they're about two days' ride from the Frey's.

He still has time to stop them from getting there. But no matter how he tries to find excuses to delay with urgent requests to make water and get forgotten objects, they're on the road that morning anyway.

For the second time in his life, he sorely misses having his tool kit.

And he knows it's sacrilege, really, but Arya's dagger is Valyrian steel, and strong and forever sharp enough to cut through anything.

So when they stop at midday to eat, he rolls quietly under one of the wagons and steadily uses it to cut through half an axle, then slips to another wagon down the train and does that one too.

He grins when the axles break minutes after they start off again.

But he's less pleased when they decide to move the goods off those wagons to working ones and put the broken ones to the side of the road.

While they're redistributing grain and barrels of wine, he walks down the caravan and randomly cuts through a couple saddle cinches and billets.

But that only takes a few men off their mounts, and is little more than an annoyance- they simply walk or ride on wagons instead.

All in all, he's only managed to delay them a couple of hours. And his dread grows as he looks up at the comet, glowing red above them.

By the time they make camp next to the road that night, they can see the Green Fork river, a silver ribbon on the horizon, the twin castles and the bridge between them a shadowed smear on the water.

He needs to stop them. But how? He doesn't want to kill their horses, but he might just have to.

Hopefully they won't feel it if he does it while they're asleep.

His eyes widen when he spots someone familiar walking by with a horseshoe and hammer. What did Arya call him again?

“...Jory?” He gulps with relief when the man turns. “Did...somebody throw a shoe?”

Jory gives him a smile. “That's right. And I'm no smith, but we have to try to re-shoe it best we can. We've been having a bad string of traveler's luck today.”

Gendry smiles, heart pounding. “Can I watch you do it? See how it's done?”

He chuckles and beckons. “Never stopped being Arya Underfoot, have you? Come on.”

Gendry happily volunteers to bring the tools back once Jory's done, to a box at the back of the carriage Sansa, Mother, Roslin and Ben are in.

And he grins with delight when he opens it. Sees the nails and shoes, the tanged rasp and hoof nippers.

There's no anvil or stand. But this? _This he knows._

* * *

Gendry's grateful for the stealthy way Arya's body knows to move if he doesn't think about it too hard, quietly creeping from one horse to the next that evening. Arya's not strong enough to cut nails in two with the nippers like he could, but he just drives the ones he carefully pulls out of hooves into the dirt instead- it'll take them an age to find them.

And he thinks he only needs to delay them a day more.

There are a lot of horses though, and her father has posted guards. But they stay chatting near the campfire, attention on the wagons with their precious cargo of wine and gifts, and not the sleeping horses picketed nearby. And Gendry's grateful for the dim light the comet gives as he stays up all night, quietly waking and then taking one shoe off each horse before urging it back to sleep and moving to the next.

He's left the Stark's mounts to last, since it'll be less suspicious that Arya's among them while she can be spotted in the morning light.

But his luck runs out just when he's pulling a stubborn nail out of the front hoof of Robb's horse.

“Arya?! Arya- why are you- _what are you doing?_”

Robb grabs his shoulder and spins him around, shocked. But Gendry just bends that last nail between the nippers as best as he can manage with Arya's little hands before he drops them.

Robb picks up the bent nail and then looks at him, horrified. “You've been sabotaging the caravan, haven't you?”

Gendry doesn't say anything. He's been caught red-handed, but it doesn't matter now.

They won't be able to leave. There's not a single properly shod horse left.

Robb frogmarches him up to Father, already awake by the fire and talking quietly with Jory and Ser Rodrick.

“It's not a bad string of luck! Arya's been messing with the caravan- I just caught her unshoeing my horse!” Robb holds out the bent nail, still breathing hard.

The shocked betrayal in her father's eyes feels like a punch to the gut, even though Gendry knows exactly why he had to hobble them. “_Why,_ Arya? Is meeting one highborn lad so abhorrent to you?”

Gendry looks away. They'll never believe him, even in Arya's body. “...It's not that. We just can't go to that wedding.”

“So your heart's not set on some tradesman? Deny what you said all you want, Arya, but your actions speak louder,” Robb declares angrily.

Gendry can't help smiling despite himself.

They bind Arya's hands so she won't be able to do any more damage and set her on a wagon like a trussed up ham with a guard.

It's shameful, but Gendry's just glad that he's forced them to a halt at last.

It doesn't take them long to discover that every horse is missing a shoe, and that there's not a single nail left to re-shoe them.

It might be possible to walk to the Frey's, but it's unseemly for highborns, and riding an unproperly shod horse will lame it. Besides, they won't be able to pull the wagons with all the foodstuffs and gifts. Lord Stark decides to send Jory Cassel to walk the long road to the Frey's, to send help and horses back.

Gendry hopes he won't make it in a day.

Sansa is absolutely incensed, as is Catelyn Stark- everybody is. And he sits and keeps Arya's head bent as they shriek and scold and despair, offering apologies but refusing to explain. He can hear the men muttering darkly about her scandalous behavior, how Lord Stark's let Arya have too much freedom because of some ridiculous prophecy.

He strives to ignore them.

Rickon comes by just to gloat.

“Thought you were better at keeping your foot out of it now. Bran's going to be sorry he missed this,” Rickon chortles, biting into an apple tauntingly. Lord Stark has ruled that Arya's not to be given food for the day as punishment.

“...Half of this is Bran's idea,” Gendry admits.

Rickon's jaw drops. “Truly? Aw, why don't you two ever include me for anything fun?”

Gendry rolls his eyes and sighs. “I'll keep it in mind next time.”

It takes an age for the sun to creep through the sky. He wishes he dared ask for water- Arya's lips are cracked and he's feeling faint.

And then the evening light goes funny and he looks up. And forgets all the discomfort.

He prays they're far enough away. How big a hole does a falling piece of star make? Bran never said.

He speaks up. “Father, you need to make sure the horses are tied.”

Arya's father turns away from the spectacle above them, his voice bitter. “Arya, you're not in any position-”

“_You need to make sure the horses are tied NOW._”

That startles him and the men around, and Arya's father gives him a searching look before he speaks.

“Make fast the horses. Quickly.”

Then he approaches, eyes fixed to his. “_What is it_ _you aren't telling me?_”

Gendry swallows and lifts his chin to the pieces arcing away from the comet in the sky. “You wouldn't have believed me. And I wanted to save all of you. I hope we're far enough away.”

There's a whistling that turns into a scream and then a roar like thunder that won't stop. What had seemed slow and graceful when he was watching from far away happens in a breath. One moment there are smoking rocks plummeting from the sky, spiraling around each other, twining down like a braid towards the castles in the distance.

And then there's a ball of fire exploding from where they were.

It's brighter than the midday sun for a moment, and the blast that follows a couple breathless moments later throws him right into the back of the wagon. He curls into a ball automatically even as Arya's father grabs him tight and tries to shield her body with his.

Once the wind abates and debris stops hurtling past, the air looks and smells funny. It takes him a second to realize they're in a cloud of smoke, steam and dust, and they can no longer see the horizon.

“Arya, are you all right?” Lord Stark grips his shoulders and searches his eyes. “_You knew._ Did Bran tell you? Why didn't he tell_ me?_”

“Figured it out together while you were still travellin'. So we did what we could. Just glad it worked.”

He closes his eyes and sighs with relief, leaning his head back against the wagon. He's so tired.

Lord Stark's eyes narrow. “...Why are you speaking with a Flea Bottom accent? And where did you learn to unshoe horses?”

Gendry looks up guiltily.

And that's when he feels it- it doesn't hurt this time, it's more like a pop in his chest, like a spring suddenly recoiling-

-And then he's staring at the branches of the Heart Tree above him, sprawled on the ground, his right hand feeling like it's been cut in half. Bran, Jojen and Meera are bent over him, faces anxious.

“...The bond broke again? But she's alive. Everybody is. I took shoes off all their horses to stop them. Watched the piece of comet fall from far enough away.” Gendry pants, confused and oddly bereft all over again. “What did she do while she was here?”

Bran shakes his head. “She wasn't here. I think... I think it was you—you from five years ago-- but the gods kept you asleep. Though I suppose she must have done something in your body instead.”

Gendry thinks back desperately. That lost day when he fainted- he was sure they hadn't switched because he had no memories of being Arya.

Looks like he was wrong. What could have happened though?

“...Did she kill _me_ somehow?”

Jojen chuckles. “You're alive and well now, so that's unlikely.”

Bran smiles tremulously. “And now you can ask her when you see her- I don't know how I can ever thank you.”

Gendry attempts a smile and sits up, cradling his hand. It fucking _hurts_. “You don't have to. Your family- they mean a lot to me too. But... Arya and I aren't bound anymore? After all that?”

“Not all bonds are visible, even to those of us with greensight. The strongest can't be seen at all, but we feel them all the same. Come. Maester Luwin can sew up your hand, and you should rest it tonight. It seems a smith needs to make a journey if the Starks are to get home.”

Gendry grins. He can't wait to finally see her with his own eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medieval blacksmiths really did the work that farriers currently do (the word farrier actually comes from Middle French for blacksmith) in caring for horses and their hooves in particular. They may not depict it much in the show (or even in the books, IIRC) but blacksmiths were critically important for communities, and not just because of their skill for making things!
> 
> ETA: if somebody could tell me what is wrong with this chapter? Not sure why it's gotten less feedback than the previous when it's the climax, but I'd love to know!


	8. 結び (musubi, tie/connection/knot)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I once believed love would be burning red_  
_But it's golden_  
_like daylight_
> 
>   

> 
> Daylight, Taylor Swift  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the lateness- life has sort of been running over me these last two weeks but I Refuse To Not Finish This!

_It's a lovely, lavish wedding. Sansa is on her new husband's arm, glowing and perfectly beautiful. Her parents look proud and yet sad, somehow, though they're speaking warmly with the Freys. Rickon is laughing in the midst of a swarm of Frey girls. Roslin is obviously thrilled to be home showing off Ben and Robb, who is being his most charming._

_She's never wanted anything like this. _

_And yet. _

_Even yelling would be preferable to the deafening silence. To him refusing to let her in._

_She steals outside instead of going to the feast. She can't bear to sit across from that Waldron now._

_The wide stone bridge is a marvel, and there's something soothing about standing in the middle, the wind pulling at her hair and the unending flow of water underneath. She knows she'll feel chilled eventually, although autumn here is not as cold as up North. _

_If only the wind could numb that ache in her chest instead of her skin. If only she could drop all these feelings into the river and have it carry them off to the ocean, lost, forgotten._

_The light from the comet flickers, and she looks up. There are pieces breaking off it, spinning free and leaving glowing trails of their own._

_Maybe it does know Sansa named her wedding after it. Or maybe it knows her own heart feels like it's breaking apart. _

_It's spectacular, anyway. She should probably call everybody outside to- it looks like one of the guards has already done so- people are streaming out the doors exclaiming and pointing._

_Wait. Are those...?_

_No... _

_She's not afraid, despite the deafening roar. This must be what Bran saw all those years ago. She's always known she was going to die young._

_The worst thing is seeing Sansa scream and seeing the helpless horror on her Father's face. Realizing her family is sharing her fate in this. _

_There's a split second of unbearable agony as her bones pulverize and flesh scorches._

_And then what was Arya Stark is only glowing dust and memory._

* * *

_(Arya? Arya? You- you don't know me at all, do you?)_

Arya opens her eyes with a gasp, throat aching and tears blurring her vision.

Was that a dream? Or was that a _memory_?

It was so _real_\- not hazy or fluid. As if she'd really felt herself blasted to ash; struck by the impossible weight and heat of a star. But of course, it couldn't...

She swipes at her eyes and stops abruptly.

She's in Gendry's body. On a cot in a small room with a door. She doesn't know where he is, but surely he's made it to the Crossroads by now.

She gulps and sits up, looking about anxiously for a note, but there's nothing but gray plank walls.

A rummage through his meager possessions reveals that the last stick of charcoal is gone too- he must have thrown it away.

She's probably only here because he fell asleep by mistake.

And she understands why he's so angry, understands that she's stranded him in some strange town with only Farmer Pell's promise of room and board until she arrives. But she'd been so sure Gendry would understand once he read her letter. Or at least tell her off instead of not bringing her journal at all; deliberately cutting off all communication.

She'd been so sure he cared for her too. She wishes she hadn't written how she felt about him now.

It's small consolation to finally know he's alive, at least, even if it hurts to have been so wrong.

* * *

She's deliberately quiet and cautious. The first time she'd wandered about in his body, she'd ended up blundering a lot and she doesn't want to make things between them even worse.

It seems Gendry has agreed to become an apprentice at the blacksmith here at the Crossroads instead of waiting for her at Farmer Pell's, like she'd arranged.

He'd rather stay here among strangers than come with her to Winterfell.

And it's like a slap in the face when one of the other apprentices relays why he probably feels that way.

“What kind of shitty smith leaves their tools and apron behind? “ he sneers, ”You must be mad as hornets. And you're lucky Master Ewan liked the way you forged that fancy sword, but don't think you can skip to Journeyman without earnin' a kit, city boy. You sure ain't usin' mine.”

Arya blanches, thinking of the tools on the workbench Gendry had been so protective of. The ones she'd just assumed belonged to the shop.

That _she_ had left behind.

“...Wouldn't dream of it,” she says weakly.

_How could she be so stupid?_

* * *

She's shocked to wake in Gendry's body again the next morning. She stares at the planks above, struggling to understand.

He's doing something _in her._ He has to be. But what, and why?

No matter how badly she's ruined things for him before, he's never been vengeful or hurtful- he just yells and then moves on. It's part of why she likes him so much.

She probably deserves it if he's dropped her dagger and bow down a well, though he wouldn't need to stay up all night for that. But she's too busy trying to learn new names and places and methods to have time to worry about it.

At least Master Ewan doesn't get angry like Master Mott did when she admits that she doesn't know how to adjust horseshoes or the right mix of ores to cast a plow. And he gives the other sneering apprentices a measuring look before explaining, patient and deliberate.

“Well, Gendry, I get that you're used to makin' fine filigree and plate armor for fancy folk, but the Crossroads is a traveler's town. Most of our custom is in horseshoes and farm equipment, and that I can teach you like I taught all these arseholes, though some seem to have forgotten. You're not 'fraid of the horses anyway, which is more than I can say for some first startin' out,” he mentions, and one of the apprentices ducks his head and glares at his boots, cheeks burning as the others hoot at him instead.

She wishes it weren't overcast and gloomy- the comet is almost at its closest pass and would be huge in the sky if not for the clouds.

She's carting coal in the evening when she spots Stark banners coming up the road.

Her eyes widen with confusion.

How could they have possibly gotten here so quickly?

And why are they riding _north?_

She stops, waiting for them to come closer, trying to see who Father must have sent down south when she chokes with shock.

There's _Father_. And just behind him, Jory Cassel, Syrio Forel and...

_Her. _

Something snaps in her chest at the sight of her chattering thirteen year old self, her vision going black as she's yanked backwards out of Gendry's body--

\--and slams back into her own with a gasp. Father is kneeling next to her on a wagon, it smells like smoke and everything is hazy and foggy. She can hear people shouting and horses making sounds of distress- there's confusion and chaos milling around them.

But she finally understands.

“Arya?! Answer me! Did you hit your head in the blast? Your eyes rolled back and you-”

She shuts her eyes and shakes her head in horrified denial, clutching at her chest with her tied hands, knowing she's just felt the bond between them break. “...I left him. _I left him five years ago._”

* * *

Arya desperately wants to ride south, to at least_ try_ to make amends for what she's done, all unknowing.

But it seems Gendry's stranded her right back.

Every horse they own is missing at least one shoe. And there's no longer a castle or associated town nearby: the Twins are now twin crater lakes on the Green Fork.

House Frey is _gone._ And House Stark escaped the same fate by mere hours.

Everybody is resentful and grateful all at once, except Roslin, who is beside herself with grief.

When asked if Bran had told her somehow, Arya can only tell the truth: she has no idea. And while the explanation Father gives is that she must have hit her head during the blast, it hurts to know she can no longer write a note to ask.

And she still shudders at the too real memory of that dream. Of her ears bleeding from deafening thunder and a fireball plummeting down too fast. Of blinding light before utter darkness.

She's sure that was what Gendry was doing- saving them. He'd stayed up all night to do so.

Why, when she'd wronged him so badly? And how had he_ known? _

* * *

A week later, Grey Wind comes trotting up with a new leather collar on. He's obviously made the journey from Winterfell directly, with a minimum of rest and food, and Robb greets his direwolf with both delight and grave concern. Sansa hurries to get water and food for him as Robb lavishes him with praise and pats.

Clever of Bran- no raven could have found them with no rookery left, and a man on a horse would never have made the journey so quickly or found them so unerringly.

There's a message wrapped around some nails in a small pouch on the collar.

Father reads aloud, obviously shaken. “...Bran says The Wall has been _breached_ by another piece of the comet. He's called the banners. _The Wall..._ ” He shakes his head and gives Arya a searching look before he continues. “...He apologizes for the inconvenience but is thankful we survived. Advises that we might find some usable nails driven into the dirt. Says he's sending a smith down to help with the rest. ...I don't recall a Gendry at Mikken's?” he says to Robb, who also shakes his head.

Arya's head snaps up, eyes wide. “Who did you say?”

“It's an unusual name- I may not be saying it correctly.” Father says, frowning. His thoughts are already elsewhere, and he sets down the message. “Cat, I want you, Sansa, Roslin and Ben to head to your sister's in the Eyrie. You'll be safer there from the war in the south.”

He doesn't mention the imminent threat from the North, but he doesn't have to.

“Ser Rodrick- take these nails. Re-shod what horses you can, and escort them there. Take at least twenty men- the Hill tribes can be troublesome. The rest of us will wait for this smith and head back North.”

He looks bleak. “We double the daily drills in bow and sword until he arrives. Winter is coming.”

They all bow their heads and move to obey. But before she leaves, Arya picks up Bran's message from the makeshift table.

And though tears spring to her eyes when she re-reads it, she smiles for the first time in weeks.

* * *

At least all the food they'd brought for the wedding ends up helping them to feed themselves.

Father trades some of the fine wine for supplies and access to wells from local farmers as well- they're only supposed to be passing though, and instead they've been camped for days. The horses need hay once they've grazed the grass down to nubs, and hauling back all the Arbor gold and Dornish red will slow them down anyway.

Being able to drink good wine helps keep up morale when faced with the same grain porridge at every meal too.

And if her eyes go hopefully to the road more often than most, nobody notices- they're all looking out for that smith; anxious to get back to Winterfell.

Arya's asked Father to have the men practice shooting around daybreak and sunset- Bran said the last battle would be at night and while they can't afford to waste their few torches, it's better practice than sighting targets in daylight.

It's funny, that odd sense she gets, but she straightens and shouts for the men to hold their shots when she feels something familiar at the back of her skull.

“...Nymeria?” she calls, scanning the lengthening shadows towards the east. It takes her only a moment before she spots the fluid shape of her direwolf racing towards her.

“Nymeria! What are you doing here? Did Bran send you too?” she gasps, laughing at the enthusiastic greeting she gets, rubbing her ears and struggling to remain standing upright. Nymeria bounds around her in circles between happy licks, utterly pleased with herself. There's no collar on her the way there was with Grey Wind, and she's not lean and bedraggled, so Bran hasn't sent her as a courier. Therefore...

“...Did you come with Gendry? Where is he?”

Nymeria pants with delight and then ducks between her legs, lifting her off the ground.

Arya's eyes widen. “...You want me to ride-!”

She squawks with surprise, instinctively staying low and trying to grab hold without yanking at her fur as Nymeria starts to lope back towards the road.

Her heart leaps as they cover ground quickly and she spots a single rider pulling a dray in the distance.

Arya's heartbeat is loud in her ears and almost painful in her chest. The driver has picked up his pace now that he's spotted them too, and she's so happy that her breath is coming in shudders and her eyes are wet.

It's him. It's him. Oh gods.

His hair is shorn short, and his facial hair is just stubble instead of the short beard and mustache she used to run curious fingers over. He's broader across the chest and shoulders than she remembers, and dressed in warm winter clothing instead of the leather vest.

But she'd know him anywhere.

“Gendry?!”

“Arya?!”

Afterwards, Arya doesn't even remember jumping off Nymeria as he pulls his horse to a stop and leaps off the dray towards her. Tears run down her face as she studies the awestruck smile on his face, how those beautiful blue eyes are filled with tears at the sight of her too. She reaches out with a trembling hand, half expecting it to go right through him.

But he's solid and warm under her fingertips, and her laugh sounds like a strangled sob.

“Gendry. _Gendry._ You're here. _You're here._”

He smiles tenderly, and he reaches out and cups her cheek in his hand, carefully tracing her cheekbone with his thumb and laughing shakily.

“...Unshod all your horses. Figured I'd better fix that.”

She hiccups before she throws her arms around him, too overwhelmed to speak, and they just hold each other tight for a long moment.

“..._I'm sorry,” _she finally gasps against his chest, “I didn't mean to leave you. I thought- I thought-”

His arms tighten around her. “I know. I thought so too, when it was happening. It's all right.”

“It's not!” she protests. “You were all alone and I didn't think to bring your tools-”

He groans and shakes his head, but he almost sounds amused. “...Yeah, that was bad. But you still saved my life.”

She shakes her head bitterly. “I didn't! I was _years_ too early!”

“_You did. _Arya.” Gendry frames her face in his hands, and Arya lifts her eyes to his miserably. She hates that she was too stupid to figure it out until it was too late.

“If I'd stayed in King's Landing, King Joffrey would have had my head on a spike _weeks ago_. Since I was at the Crossroads, I was ahead of the sellswords. And when I saw my name on that bounty poster, it all finally made sense.”

Arya shakes her head, still unwilling to accept forgiveness so easily, but Gendry continues.

“'sides, if I hadn't learned to smith at the Crossroads, I wouldn't have been able to save you and your family. Mott only taught me to make things for soldiers and knights. Never learned shoeing and bits and tackle 'til I had to start over.”

That confuses her. “But... how did you know that we would need saving?”

Her eyes widen when he hesitates to answer. “...We were supposed to die, weren't we? That wasn't just a dream. That's why it felt so real.” She shudders despite herself.

Gendry shakes his head, his brow furrowed and eyes intense. “Went to Winterfell. Made an offering to your old gods.” He shows her his bandaged hand. “Did it over in you instead. Did it _better_.”

Her mouth drops open with horror, and she gently takes hold of his injured hand. She knows all too well the way it's seeping through the bandage.

“But _why_?” Why would anyone go to such lengths for her, for her family, unless...

He strokes his thumb tenderly over her cheekbone again, and his eyes meet hers just as hopefully before he smiles. “...You _know_ why.”

The sun slips under the horizon, dimming the world around them, but the joy flaring in her makes her feel like they're standing in full daylight. “Oh, Gendry...”

She reaches up on tiptoe and kisses him.

Before this, Arya had always felt the most alert and intensely alive while wielding a weapon; facing an opponent. But even with her eyes shut, she's acutely aware of everything about Gendry: how right he tastes and smells, how every inch of her skin almost tingles as his hands clutch her close and he kisses her back eagerly. He groans as she slides her tongue against his, and she can feel his heartbeat racing as fast as hers as their bodies press together.

Nothing has ever felt so blissfully good. She wants to kiss Gendry forever.

And she might have-- it's properly dusk when Nymeria alerts them with a warning bark, and they reluctantly pull away.

Arya looks towards where Nymeria's faced, still breathing hard, and she exhales with exasperation and steps away from Gendry when she spots Robb riding towards them on Grey Wind.

Hopefully he didn't see what they were doing in the dim light, especially from a distance.

The concern and confusion on his face is evident enough when he arrives. “Arya! The men said Nymeria ran up during target practice and then spirited you off! Who's this then?”

She keeps her Game face on and lifts a shoulder dismissively. “She was just excited to see me after being so long away. Robb, this is Gendry, the blacksmith Bran sent. Gendry, this is my brother, Robb Stark.”

Gendry dips his head respectfully. “Milord. Bran says I'm to help re-shoeing horses. Brought everything I need to do that, and we traveled fast as we could.”

Robb's eyes narrow slightly before he nods, and Arya struggles to keep her expression bland. “Appreciate that. Welcome, Gendry. We'll bring you to Father right away- the whole camp's been keenly awaiting your arrival.” He frowns. “You traveled from Winterfell alone?”

“No, milord. Jojen and Meera and Summer came with us down the Kingsroad until we reached the fork for the Twins.”

Robb's brow furrows. “You're familiar with the Reeds, then?” He pauses. “Just you and _Nymeria _on that last leg? I thought Nymeria didn't abide strangers,” he says to Arya.

Arya wishes Robb weren't so annoyingly observant. “...She doesn't,” she admits.

Gendry looks at Robb warily and gives an awkward shrug. “...Didn't like me at first. Bran had to introduce us. Fairly used to me now, though.”

As if to illustrate his point, Nymeria trots over to demand a scratch from him, her jaw falling open with pleasure as he indulges her.

Robb looks grudgingly impressed. “You're one up on most of Winterfell, then, smith. Direwolves are choosy, and Nymeria in particular. Come, we need to get you to Father and you'll want supper and rest. You've had a long journey and you'll likely have a long day tomorrow,” he says, giving Gendry a friendly clap on the shoulder, and Gendry nods and gives Arya a wistful smile before he gives Nymeria a dismissive pat and turns back to his horse and dray.

Arya struggles to rein in her irritation and calls to Nymeria. If her interfering brother hadn't showed up, Gendry's hands would still be on _her. _

She hopes he isn't too tired to reunite properly later, once Robb isn't around to frown suspiciously at them.

* * *

Robb handles the introductions too, which is simple protocol since he thinks they're strangers, but it irks her anyway. “Father, this is Gendry, the smith Bran sent. Gendry, my father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.”

Father's eyes widen when he sees him in the torchlight. “...Welcome, Gendry. You seem familiar, somehow- have we met before?”

Gendry raises his eyes nervously before he swallows and lowers his eyes again. “We have, milord. 'Bout five years ago, in Tobho Mott's shop in King's Landing, though you might not remember.”

Father's mouth drops open and he gives Arya a startled look before he steps closer to Gendry.

“...A smith with a Flea Bottom accent. That Bran sent.” He huffs a grim laugh and dips his head. “...That was you somehow, up all night taking the shoes off the horses, wasn't it?”

Arya's mouth drops open with dismay and she steps in front of Gendry, automatically reaching for her dagger. “You _can't _punish him for that! That was _me. I _did it!”

“Arya!_ Stand down._” The startled rebuke comes from both Robb and Father.

“_No! _This isn't right!”

Father keeps looking between her and Gendry with a kind of regretful understanding, and behind her, Gendry speaks low. “Arya. He _knows. _Your father spoke to me after-”

“_Shut up!” _Arya whispers, giving Gendry a desperate look. “You've already cut open your hand- I won't let him _take _it too!” She turns back, determined. “_Father, please._ Somebody caught me doing it, right?”

Robb gives her an appalled look. “You don't _remember_?”

She glares at him. “...Doesn't matter. I claim full-”

Father interrupts her sharply, holding up his hand. “_Arya!_ I need you to stop leaping to conclusions before I finish what I have say. _Now stand down_.”

She obeys reluctantly, though she's still ready to leap to Gendry's defense.

Father sighs and continues. “...Gendry, I asked you a question.”

Gendry gives her an apologetic glance before he meets her father's eye. “...It was me, milord. We spoke after the fall, in the wagon, so you know why. I'm here now to put it right again.”

Robb's gobsmacked expression would be comical if Arya wasn't so desperately worried. But Father just nods gravely like this was the answer he expected.

“...Well, Gendry, it appears that I, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, am in your debt. And if memory serves, Stannis Baratheon granted both a knighthood and lordship to the smuggler who saved him and his men from starvation. I could do no less by the man who saved both my men _and _my family from certain death.”

For perhaps the first time in her life, Arya is stunned speechless.

“...I can't- I'm just a bastard,” Gendry stammers, clearly bewildered.

Father raises his brows in acknowledgement and smiles. “Ser Davos Seaworth also hailed from Flea Bottom. A good man, loyal and brave, and better at negotiations using his plain words than most nobles. After Prince Stannis raised his standing, he went on to become King Robert's Master of Ships.”

Arya looks back at Gendry with a hopeful smile, and he gives her a delighted smile in return before he looks back at her father.

“Milord, that would be- I'd be honored.”

* * *

Gendry talks seriously with Robb and Father over supper, passing on a sealed letter from Bran and reporting what he heard about the war down South on the way down the Kingsroad. He keeps looking over at her anyway, and Robb frowns every time he catches him at it, but Arya doesn't care anymore.

He'll be a lord and a knight. Maybe not the kind of marriage alliance Father and Mother might have hoped for, but still perfectly acceptable.

She chafes with impatience for supper to be over already so Robb and Father can go over Bran's letter instead.

She's missed him terribly; she aches to finally _talk_ with him.

She wants to kiss him again, too. Hopefully do other things with their bodies now that they're finally together.

He's older now, but she imagines he looks even better with his shirt off than she remembers.

Gendry begs to rest early, citing the long journey and how unused he is to the fine wine he's been served, and she immediately steals away from the fire too.

She makes her way around the camp until she spots him at his dray, pulling out the tent he has stowed.

“Gendry,” she says quietly, and he starts before he turns to her with a smile.

“Oh, Arya,” he groans, pulling her close. “Can you believe it? I'dve been happy just to save you all. I never dreamed...”

She laughs, giddy all over again herself. “...Me neither. Are you really tired? I was hoping to go walking, but if you're weary...”

He grins and kisses her. “Arya Stark. Didn't ride a thousand miles to find you just to sleep through it.”

He pauses then, brow furrowed. “...Well, actually, the Heart Tree might have-”

She rolls her eyes and laughs again, pulling on his arm. “_Come on._ I promise I'm lots more fun than Marna.”

He chuckles and follows without complaint.

* * *

“He did not really say that!”

“I swear he did! He was really put out.”

“Well, I was just being honest!”

“Well, I think you hurt his feelings. You could have pointed out the good bits, like the tail. And then maybe given him a little advice. Like, to maybe make them smaller so they could bake faster.”

“Come on! It wasn't even cooked through the middle and you're giving _me_ grief about it?”

“So you say something like, “it was unexpectedly doughy”.”

“That's not even a word! Ah, doesn't matter now, anyway- I'm sure he figured it out in the end. Hope he's all right with the war and all goin' on down there.”

“...Think he ever worked up the nerve to ask out that miller girl?”

“Naw. Us King's Landing boys wait for the girls to say things first.”

“...True. But maybe he was also smart enough to show her how he felt without having to spell it out.”

“Hot Pie can't spell. Can't read either, I don't think. ...What's so funny?”

“...I can't believe you're going to be a lord!”

“Well-! Can't believe you're a lady either!”

“...Well, you like me anyway.”

“...I don't just _like_ you.”

“...I don't just like you, either.”

* * *

They end up at one of the grain wagons: far enough away from the main body of the camp so nobody can happen upon them. She spreads her cloak over the grain sacks, and he puts his over them to keep out the cold once the kissing and touching starts leading to clothing being shed.

It's both exciting and new and yet somehow like coming home. They know each other's bodies so well, but it's utterly thrilling to finally be able to explore the fine shape of him with her own hands; feel the heat of his skin pressed against every inch of her and his strong arms holding her instead of just imagining him. She loves the naked emotion in his eyes when he looks at her, the reverence in his voice when he moans her name like he can barely believe this is really happening.

She's trusted him with her body for so long; he's trusted her with his. It just feels right to join them together at last.

Septa Mordane had warned her to guard her maidenhead because losing it would hurt, but she should have known a septa would have made it out to be far worse than it was. Once past the initial discomfort, she loves how intimate it is; how connected they feel; how his pleasure is tied to hers as they move together, building in intensity until it explodes through both of them.

And somehow, she likes that the red comet is glowing over them the whole time. Even if it tore them apart once, it brought them back together, too.

* * *

She'll remember it as the best night of her life. Between bouts of lovemaking, they talk and kiss and laugh. There's so much to tell him, so many questions she never asked.

He seems to feel the same way, and he's cuddled behind her, gently touching her tits when he asks:

“Why didn't you ever tell me about the prophecy?”

She stills, sobering despite how good it feels as he traces little circles. “How was I supposed to tell you? 'Hey Gendry, by the way, on my thirteenth nameday three seers went into a trance and proclaimed me Azor Ahai come again. Don't worry, I'm only supposed to die before I defeat Death itself, hopefully it won't happen while you're using my body!'”

He scoffs and presses a kiss to her neck. “Well, it's important. And you should have told me.”

She sighs and cuddles back against him. “I know, but... Even with all the training, with Bran and Jojen being Greenseers, it always felt like just a fanciful story, somehow. I'm only good at dispatching opponents; at killing. And Azor Ahai wasn't just a warrior.”

Gendry's hands still. “He was also a smith.”

“..._Exactly_. It never made sense to me- and then I woke up in your body and thought it was my chance at last. But I was _still _terrible at making things.”

She feels Gendry smile against the back of her neck and she scowls and elbows him.

“Ow! Hey!”

“I can't believe you're laughing at me!”

His mouth falls open. “Oh, come off it, Arya- nobody's good at everything. And that armor that first day- I thought it was supposed to be scrap. And then Mott found the ore and I seriously thought he was going to pitch me out on the street.”

She has to smile at that, and she rolls her eyes, mollified. “...Fine.”

“'Sides, you helped me forge so many things, even if you weren't the one holding the hammer in the end. You traded for the leather in Needle's pommel and holster- you know that? Probably carted all the coal and ore used in her forging too.”

Her eyes widen and she turns to look at him. “I did? _My_ Needle?”

He nods. “Did my head in to think about it at first. Anyway, highborns don't have to worry about havin' a trade, and we're never going to switch again besides.”

“...I know. But do you know what happens to Valyrian steel swords after wars are won? They get hung on walls; locked in castles- just useless trophies. Or they're lost: Dark Sister simply disappeared on some mission above The Wall. I figured... the latter would be my fate, in the end. I've been training for years; a blade honed for a single purpose. I'm not useful in any other way- can't sew or cook or even smith; couldn't even imagine lying under some pompous lord and popping out babies. And none of the seers ever said anything about an _after_.”

She's always kept these suspicions locked up inside her, but Gendry has to understand. “...I think when I kill the Night King, I'll probably die doing it. Cheating Death twice would surely be too many times, and he's an immortal with magic at his command and I'm just... me. But I never minded having a destiny like that, if I got to save everybody else- until I met you.”

And she knows it's selfish, but it's the truth. “...I want to keep loving you. I'm not done- we've just barely started.”

He doesn't answer for a long moment, just tightening his arms around her and rubbing his hand soothingly over her hair. “...Not done loving you, either. So, I guess if you die again, I'll just have to cut my hand until the old gods make it right.”

She snorts with laughter against his chest. “That's not how that works!”

But she knows he's dead serious- and that eases that knot inside her somehow.

* * *

Arya wakes up disoriented when something prods her in the butt. It's way too bright, and shifting even a little makes her aware of how sore she is between her legs.

She opens her eyes with a gasp when she instantly recalls why. Gendry's arm is thrown over her waist, and they're both still naked under his cloak. Despite their original plans to stay up all night again, they must have fallen asleep, too replete and content to resist.

His cock is hard against her ass like it wants to go again though, and she has to laugh quietly to herself when she turns to look at him.

Gendry startles awake when he feels her move- he's obviously not used to sharing a bed, and she inhales at the rush of emotion she gets when an anxious expression crosses his face and he reaches out hesitantly with his bandaged hand.

But he smiles with relief when he touches her cheek, and that smile widens when she deliberately puts her hand on top of his.

As romantic as it had been, making love to him under the comet's dim red glow, she thinks she prefers seeing him awash in morning sunshine like this.

They both speak at once, with wondrous joy:

“Good morning, Gendry.”

“Morning, Arya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading my story! Special shoutout to obsessivewriter, Swetz, Dancingonstars, yanak324 and lyrawhite for your consistent support throughout. Your comments really encouraged me to finish this crazy crossover even on those days I was questioning my life choices. :D  
君の名は (Kimi no na wa/Your Name) is really near and dear to me, a former Tokyo-ite who now lives a couple of hours from where Mitsuha's fictional town is supposed to be (my kids speak with an accent very similar to hers). So when [the prompt](https://nrgburst.tumblr.com/post/186537197640/nrgburst-nrgburst-kyoshisideb-i-just) came up on tumblr I just couldn't get the parallels between these two vastly different canons out of my head: comets, city boy/country girl, animistic magic/religion- even how both Gendry and Taki have black hair and dark blue eyes and Arya and Mitsuha get dramatic haircuts. I'd already written [a coda fic for KNNW](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10211264), but I'm glad I wrote this, if only because it gave me a chance to flagrantly ignore GoT canon and write something more emotionally satisfying too!  
If you're wondering what it would _actually_ be like to have a piece of comet hit, here is [a link to xkcd](https://what-if.xkcd.com/20/) that also explains the physics a little (probably the pieces would have been travelling at somewhere between 11 km/s and 72km/s) and [a pic of the original double crater lake from KNNW.](https://nrgburst.tumblr.com/post/188643054335)  
For crossover/structure purposes, I planned the story ending here, with them waking up together and finally getting to say something mundane/routine that doesn't feel like that way at all. But I could write an epilogue or followup fic to fulfill Arya's prophecy if you guys feel like the story isn't complete? Let me know!  
ETA: I wrote a mini-meta about [the Red String of Fate trope](https://nrgburst.tumblr.com/post/188760397855/red-string-of-fate-%E9%81%8B%E5%91%BD%E3%81%AE%E8%B5%A4%E3%81%84%E7%B3%B8) on my tumblr, because while I did incorporate this soulmate trope in this fic, I don't think it was super-obvious!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [nrgburst](https://nrgburst.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. :D


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